Scribble & Scribe Issue 1

EXPLICIT

Scribble&Scribe

August

Contents

Specialties Comedy Satire Science

4

6

Features

4 Scott Emerson pleased as Students Embrace the TTCC, Declares War on Thin Wallets

7 Film 12 TV 14 Music

Kyle Barratt

26 Word War W

17 Travel 18 Food 21 Theatre

A compilation of short stories, including this month’s competition winner.

22 Shoutout 23 Short Stories 26 Samuel Sapien 47 Dating Advice 50 Rage Space 53 Comics 54 Horoscopes

Scribble&Scribe

Letter from the editor Treasured reader, Welcome to the first issue of Scribble & Scribe. We are the only non-union based magazine currently running at The University of Queensland.

Which brings me to my point - I love the current monthly magazine circulating UQ, ‘Simple Floor Cat’. To be honest, I only started to pay attention to Simple with their first copy this year because I saw it on Facebook (I only wish someone would do me the honour of advertising our magazine on Facebook. It’s win-win, you look ironically savvy by reading something so low-brow and we win). Ever since that first read I have been impressed with the writers at Simple, who have proven themselves to be intelligent writers whom I enjoy reading every month. Unfortunately, cats are a pest in my country so we cannot be friends. I will admire you from afar.

Which brings me to my point - we are not Simple Floor Cat, we are Cribe of Scrabble.

We do not have any objective, we want only to entertain. If Simple was The Dark Knight, Cribe is The Avengers. Our Avengers are: Kyle Barrett, Manasi Jiwrajka, Michael Williams, Jake Dion Gomizel, Bradley Wilson, Eleanor Hawksworth, Callum Hornsby, Renae Grinlaubs, Mitch Metcalfe, Hugh Rayner, Quentin J. Cobbler, Lady Catherine, The Night-hawk, and Henry the Goat. They each deserve so much recognition for what they’ve achieved. Like the sample says in Godspeed You! Black Emperor’s Lift Your Skinny Fists Like Antennas To Heaven: “It takes dedication”.

If this magazine can make at least one person smile, think, or laugh -we’ve done our job. If we have a mission statement, it’s that. Maybe we’re not in it for the most intellectual means, but I think this University has too many essays. Let’s learn about the brighter side of life. Though I appreciate challenging reading, I believe with Scribble & Scribe everyone in the University will have something to share, not just those interested in politics. Again, I have to address that Simple is an important part of University life.

Which brings me to my point - my writers. I now know all of my writers personally, and it makes me so proud seeing all of their work and how far they’ve come. Many of our writers have never written for the public before, yet have proven themselves beyond capable.

They can be funny, smart, insightful, and very likeable. They work for free and the printing costs come out of our pocket. We don’t want to beg, but if you would like to support the magazine our BSB is 064158 and our Account Number is 1089 9905. For everyone, have a read through and enjoy.

Yours truly,

Slow Loris Paul

Scribble&Scribe 3

COMEDYSATIRE August Issue 1

Scott Emerson pleased as Students Embrace the TTCC, Declares War on Thin Wallets Kyle Barrett Queensland’s most consistent excuse for being late to work, TransLink, has begun cracking down on students travelling on concessional Go-Cards without also being able to produce a Tertiary Transport Concession Card (TTCC).

State Minister for Transport, Scott Emerson, introduced the new card on March 3, and has so far felt slightly underwhelmed with the amount of complaints received by his office. “We’ve had a steady stream of pissed-off students since we introduced the card, probably not as many as we had when we decided to increase fares by 7.5% in January, but we think that will improve with time,” he said.

Queensland students will risk a $227 fine if they are caught travelling without a Go-Card, university ID and the TTCC. “This new policy is designed to make the wallet or purse feel fatter – more full – and for impoverished students, that has substantial psychological merit,” Emerson went on to explain. “This is especially useful if they are $227 out of pocket.”

Alongside the TTCC, TransLink has also revealed plans to introduce the ‘Go-Card ID card’ (GCIDC) for Go-Card ownership verification, the Tertiary Transport Thank-You Card (TTTYC) which will need to be presented before thanking any public transport operator, and the MX-TransLink Concerned Commuter Card (MXTCCC), which will be required for passengers submitting sardonic complaints to MX about overweight commuters.

According to the transport department, the underwhelming amount of complaints to their office can be attributed to students increasingly voicing their concern over social media:

No one is ever really happy with their ID photo.

SOURCE: Kyle Barrett

“It’s not like the old days,” says Sally Preston, a call-operator who has been working with TransLink since its inception in 1993.

“There was a time when students made the effort to abuse me and my department, but since the rise of the Internet, we’re getting less calls with every shitty decision that we make.” But Sally is determined things will pick up.

“I’m not going to get soft about it. That’s change. I mean I like the intimacy of a phone call, but if someone threatens to burn down a bus on the TransLink Facebook page, then I guess the threat still indirectly applies to me,” she explained.

“People tend to perceive students as lazy, but I found they rarely procrastinated when it came to threatening my family. I think they’ll start picking up the phones again.”

This undergraduate is excited to start showing off his fancy coins. SOURCE: Kyle Barrett

Scribble&Scribe

4

Unfortunately for TransLink, not everyone is using their voice to complain.

Some students relished the opportunity carry around a brick in their back pocket to complement the “cluster-fuck of cards” with coins.

But Emerson is doing his best to make sure complaints stay on target with levels reached earlier this year, openly misleading the public about the issue.

Mr. Emerson told 612 ABC Brisbane on the first Tuesday of July, "I understand that there's no backlog at all; the longest it's taking at the moment is about 10 days to get a card."

Coincidentally, it takes roughly ten days of budgeting to put a week’s worth of travel money on the Go-Card.

An interesting theory. SOURCE: Kyle Barrett

Emerson’s latest comments on the issue are sure to bring in more complaints to the transport department, but it will continue to utilise its chief measures of delayed trains, “ongoing maintenance” to the network and general inability to run public transport in an effective and competent manner.

“After all, students suppressing their rage aren’t doing us any favours,” Emerson said, “We know that we’re not the best at this, and you know it too, you just have to let us know why.”

Students with the TTCC in their wallet who manage to get a seat on a train, ferry or bus are being encouraged to lean on the left side of their rear-ends for a more comfortable journey.

Thickened wallets may pose a significant amount of displeasure, as the sheer amount of cards being carried can make it feel like you’re sitting on a, “sizable paper-weight in your back pocket that is awfully close to the anus,” according to the minister for transport. Overpriced and underperforming, TransLink ranks as one of the most expensive public transport systems in the world.Fare increases this year rendered Brisbane the most expensive of any Australian capital city's transport network, falling behind only the UK and Scandinavia in price.

Students seeking more information on the TTCC can call TransLink on 13 12 30.

Don’t forget to thank your driver.

Scribble&Scribe

5

SCIENCETALKS August Issue 1

Transcontinental Collaboration Manasi Jiwrajka

From a small slum clinic in India, I Skyped with my friend, A.A. from London, who I had met when I lived in London for a year. A.A. is also studying medicine, and is currently in Uganda at a hospital that is understaffed with little resources.

I discussed with him some of the cases I had found at the clinic in India because neither Dr. G, the junior doctor I was working with nor I, a medical student could not come up with a good diagnosis. There were some patients who presented me with interesting symptoms, and others with very common symptoms that still needed a careful diagnosis and treatment. Thank you, Oxford Handbook of Clinical Medicine saving lives of doctors and patients worldwide.

Although I have experienced collaboration in science before, upon discussing some of the things I have been encountering here in India, I realised the value of collaborating in medicine. Most medical students are aware that without studying in teams, learning and doing well in medicine is quite difficult. At some level, collaboration is inevitable. Medical students need each other to act as patients so we can examine one another, test each other, and support each other.

In medical practice, collaboration happens at earlier stages of medical careers at the very least, and SHOULD happen at the later stages too. We had several patients that presented hypo-pigmented spots on their skin that did not fit some of the common skin diagnoses. Dr. G, who was fresh out of medical school, and I looked through textbooks and internet searches for a possible diagnosis but couldn't come up with one. We also consulted some other doctors at our little slum clinic with an interest in pediatrics and dermatology, but to no avail. Dr. G also tweeted the description to his followers and got a few

responses on possible differentials. I also spoke to my friend A.A. in Uganda and we discussed some of the differential diagnoses to come to the same conclusion - we need to take a picture and collaborate with other doctors.

It does not matter whether we are in India, Australia, UK or Uganda. With the current technology, my friend and I agreed that if there was a case that we were struggling with, we could send a picture/description/question using some of our free text messaging services and discuss together! We also agreed that we would share and exchange resources on antibiotics, immunizations, database username and password to access information on medicine that may not be available to us in Uganda or India.

Since A.A. is about to graduate and I have a few more years left before I can become a doctor, I insisted that we have more Skype conversations wherein he could share some of his knowledge and experience with me. Our collaboration would include not merely his resources and advice to me but also his reflections and analyses of his experiences that would be invaluable for me as a very young medical professional.

For the best patient care, it is necessary for doctors to collaborate, and work in a team rather than in isolation. Doctors and medical students should feel comfortable to pick up the phone and say, Hey Dr. Bob, look, what do you think this patient has? Or Hey Dr. Hu, do you think I did the right thing?

Docs gotta save lives together. On Skype, Whatsapp, Viber, Facebook, Twitter, Google Hangout, and old school face-to-face meetings too.

Scribble&Scribe 6

MUSICTALKS August Issue 1

Death Grips Break Up! Music News M R Williams For many people, the name ‘Death Grips’ means absolutely nothing. In their short discography (between 2011 until now), the band has only charted the one album - ‘The Money Store’. For me, and other followers of underground and experimental hip-hop, the trio are considered the figureheads of their genre. Whether you’re a fan of their work or not, anyone who has followed the band

can’t deny their radical, passionate and idiosyncratic nature. Both musically and behind the scenes, Death Grips have used their strangeness to capture the imagination of their fans. I think the best way to describe Death Grips’ antics behind the scenes is to draw up a list of all the people who hate them, or at least have reason to:

1. Trent Reznor - Lead singer of Nine Inch Nails. The veterans organised to tour with the misfits who broke up only a few months before the tour. Reznor was left to desperately find a replacement who he found in Oneohtrix Point Never.

2. Angelica Cob-Baehler - Epic Records Vice-President of Marketing. Cob-Baehler recommended the troublemakers to Epic Records. The band released their second album under the label ‘NO LOVE DEEP WEB’ onto the Internet for free, without permission. Cob-Baehler is no longer the Vice President of Marketing and the trio were fired.

3. Hipsters - Fans that went to Lollapalooza 2013. The Death Grips stage at the festival featured a suicide note and not a band.

4. People who don’t like nudity - For my personal favourite album of theirs ‘NO LOVE DEEP WEB’, Death Grips drummer Zach Hill uses a picture of (apparently) his penis for their album cover.

5. Kanye West - Many fans complain that Kanye West’s recent album ‘Yeezus’ sounds like a weaker version of a Death Grips album. It is Kanye’s first attempt at Industrial Hip-Hop, and personally, I don’t see much similarity between the two.

Death Grips have easily been the most exciting band to follow over the past 2 years (I was introduced with ‘The Money Store’).

The band posted a picture of a napkin on their Facebook page which said that they had split up, and had reached the fullest of the band’s potential. I personally thought they had a lot more to give. Who knows?

Maybe the band will come back. Maybe this is just a publicity stunt. Either way, I am looking forward to anything that Death Grips’ members Zach Hill, MC Ride and Stefan Burnett put out in the future, if they choose to take on solo careers or form new

bands. The first disc of their upcoming and last album ‘The Powers That B’ is on their Facebook for free, and I highly recommend it. It’s not as aggressive as the band's early work, but certainly not a sobering direction for the group. ‘Niggas on the moon’, the name the band has given the first disc, is hypnotic and mind bending. Another thing to look out for is Bjork’s vocal feature on this release - whether Bjork has been sampled or if it’s her live singing - I’m still not sure.

Either way, the new Death Grips album is getting me so noided.

Scribble&Scribe 7

MUSICLIST August Issue 1

Scribble’s Top 60 songs of the year so far 1.

2.

3.

4.

5.

6.

Ab-Soul - These Days…: Closure Actress – Ghettoville: Frontline Andrew Bird – Things Are Really Great Here, Sort of…: So Much Wine, Merry Christmas Angel Olsen – Burn Your Fire For No Witness: Unfucktheworld The Antlers - Familiars: Palace Bear the Mammoth - Yamadori: What’s Yours Was Mine Is Never Leaving

Easily the most innovative drumming so far this year, Bear the Mammoth have managed to create an impressive album in an era where post- rock is starting to tire.

7.

8.

9.

10.

Behemoth – The Satanist: Blow Your Trumpets Gabriel Ben Frost - A U R O R A: Venter Blank Realm - Grassed In: Falling Down The Stairs Carla Bozulich - Boy: Gonna Stop Killing

The veteran returns with one of her strangest and most uncomfortable releases yet.

11.

12.

13.

14.

15.

16.

17.

18.

19.

20.

Child - Child: Mean Square Crosses - Self-titled: Bitches Brew Cloud Nothings – Here and Nowhere Else: Now Here In Closure In Moscow - Pink Lemonade: Neoprene Byzantine Clipping – CLPPNG: Work Work Death Grips - niggas on the moon: Fuck Me Out Dune Rats - Dune Rats: Dalai Lama Big Banana Marijuana East India Youth – Total Strife Forever: Dripping Down Elbow – The Take Off and Landing of Everything: This Blue World Freddie Gibbs and Madlib – Piñata: Shitsville

This is by far the most gangsta album of the year. Freddie Gibbs brings his most on-point lyricism and intense flows yet. All wrapped up with the class of Madlib’s production, this is a must listen for hip-hop fans.

21.

22.

23.

24.

Future Islands – Singles: Sun in the Morning Guerre - E X N I H I L O: D E A T H E A T Glass Animals - Zaba: Gooey Have a Nice Life – The Unnatural World: Defenestration Song

Have a Nice Life may not be their most atmospheric release, but this pummelling Joy Division-like riff is as devastating as any of the previous work of cult music architect, Dan Barrett.

25.

26.

27.

28.

The Hotelier – Home, Like NoPlace Is There: Dendron How To Dress Well – “What Is This Heart?”: Words I Don’t Remember Hundred Waters – The Moon Rang Like a Bell: Cavity Idylls – Prayer For Terrene: PCP Crazy

The title of the song pretty much sums up the album.. This album is the most pummeling and brutal of anything since Converges’ Jane Doe.

Scribble&Scribe 8

29.

30.

Indian – From All Purity: Clarify King Gizzard and the Lizard Wizard - Oddments: Vegemite

Essentially kids’ music for adults, a song that seems to have come from the most untamed mind in history.

31.

32.

La Dispute – Rooms of the House:Woman (In Mirror) Liars – Mess:Mess On A Mission

This is by far one of my favourite songs this year. The high pitched squeals of “A mess on a mission” are so catchy and it’s just a ball of fun.

33.

34.

35.

36.

Lykke Li – I Never Learn: Love Me Like I’m Not Made of Stone Mac DeMarco – Salad Days: Passing Out Pieces Mastodon - Once More ‘Round The Sun’: The Motherload Mimicking Birds – Eons : Owl Hoots

For anyone who loves their lyrics to be philosophical and thought provoking, with a side of environmentally aware. Mimicking Birds have also produced one of their most instrumentally lush songs yet.

37.

Oneohtrix Point Never - Commisions I: Music For Steamed Rocks 38.

Ought – More Than Any Other Day: Habit 39.

RATKING – So It Goes: So Sick Stories 40.

Remi - Raw X Infinity: Raw X Infinity 41.

Saskwatch - Nose Dive: Give Me A Reason 42.

Schoolboy Q – Oxymoron: Gangsta 43.

Sia – 1000 Forms of Fear: Chandelier 44.

Silver Mt. Zion – Fuck Off Get Free We Pour Light On Everything: What We Loved Was Not Enough 45.

St. Vincent – St. Vincent: Digital Witness 46.

Sun Kil Moon – Benji: Jim Wise 47.

Step Brothers – Lord Steppington: Step Masters 48.

A Sunny Day In Glasgow – Sea When Absent: In Love With Useless A Sunny Day In Glasgow are known in the shoegaze community for their experimental edge. This song is conceptually impressive, easy on the ears, and catchy too.

49.

50.

51.

52.

53.

54.

55.

56.

57.

58.

59.

60.

Shabazz Palaces - Lese Majesty: #CAKE Swans – To Be Kind: Oxygen Timber Timbre – Hot Dreams: Low Commotion Total Control - Typical System: Liberal Party tUnE yArDs – Nikki Nack: Water Fountain The War On Drugs – Lost In The Dream: Red Eyes Warpaint – Warpaint: Love Is To Die White Lung – Deep Fantasy:– Down It Goes White Suns - Totem: Carrion Wild Beasts - Present Tense: Mecca Woods of Desolation - As The Stars: Unfold Wovenhand - Refractory Obdurate: Salome

Scribble&Scribe

9

MUSICREVIEW August Issue 1

Sia – 1000 Forms Of Fear Album Review RCA Pop M R Williams

Scribble&Scribe 10

Sia’s bombastic return, ‘1000 Forms of Fear’ was technically produced in the U.S., but I’d like to claim this as one of the most impressive homegrown albums this year.

The singer/songwriter was born in Adelaide - and I think that’s enough to claim this album, especially since I haven’t been fond of the lack of ambition in mainstream Australian music this year. You could say the exact same for this album, but what you couldn’t say is that 1000 Forms of Fear isn’t, for the most part, compelling. Sia and her producer, Grammy award winner Greg Kurstin, have not brought to you some poncy Neo-prog, Trap or Nu-Disco record (not that there is anything wrong with those genres). Sia has instead brought you catchy and well-orchestrated lyrics and a moving vocal delivery, while Kurstin’s work behind the scenes on this album is unsurprisingly subtle and unobtrusive. Kurstin has worked on a few big albums this year already with Foster the People, Lykke Li and Lana del Rey. I haven’t personally been impressed with these albums, but if you like hazily produced pscyhe, baroque or chamber pop where the vocalist really stands out, definitely check them out. Sia’s peronsality is very much is very much what makes 1000 Forms of fear so special, she is very much front and centre, but unlike these other artists her vocals don’t washed away by Kurstin’s mixing. It’s like she is bursting out as a sunbeam through the blur. Sia Furler here takes the spotlight with everything she has.

Maybe it comes down how much you understand the back-story of this album, but this album is certainly moving.

1000 Forms of Fear may not be the real tear-jerker that Sun Kil Moon’s ‘Benji’ is, but there are a lot of painful and relatable lyrics scattered through this album. The lyrics deal with rough nights out, tough relationships, death, depression, drug addiction, and suicide, just to skitter over the surface.

These themes are handled introspectively with a real sense of poeticism and a keen eye for good pop tunes and melodies. Sia’s ability to write meaningful but memorable pop songs has been something that has

been in the public eye for a while, but we just haven’t known it. Since her hiatus in 2010 Sia has been writing pop songs for other artists, such as “Diamonds” performed

by Rihanna and the astonishing David Guetta song “Titanium”. Sneaking her influence into the musical mainstream for such a long time acts as a double sword for Sia. On one hand, she has been able to perfect her craft; on the other, her sound on this album can become a little familiar.

I’d like to start with ‘Chandelier’: a bombastic, heart-string pulling epic.

Chandelier was originally written for Rihanna, but Sia felt too attached to it, and rightfully so. Chandelier has all the trademarks of a good Rihanna song, but Sia brings a sense of bravado that I’ve never heard in Rihanna. Her vocals don’t quite make the heights that the song requires, and it makes it all the more heart breaking.

“I’m just holding on for tonight”, Sia sings at the end of Chandelier, and it opens up exactly what this album is about. Another favourite is ‘Elastic Heart’, where The Weeknd really brings his A-game. The song is about a break-up, or someone who has hurt Sia in the past. She sings: “I’ve got thick skin and an elastic heart”, over a really lovely melody which is subsidised by some harmonising done by Diplo. The only problem I’ve had with this album is the second track “Big Girls Cry”, where the instrumental is far too familiar - it feels like a parody of Rihanna or Beyonce. Of course, she’s written for both these artists, but I don’t think that’s an excuse. The song is a parody of “Big Girls Don’t Cry” by Fergie, but the instrumentals are completely different on this song.

Overall, I really like 1000 forms of fear. I find that the incredible vocal performances and the catchy yet introspective lyricism do makeup for the lack of innovation in this album. Sia has really put herself on the line here and I can’t help but respect her for that. Overall I felt that Sia, in this album, despite lacking a lot of dynamism, has really out shun her counterparts in contemporary pop.

Scribble&Scribe

11

FILMNEWS August Issue 1

It seems now that all Hollywood can do is make reboots, and sequels. However, when they are years apart, and the movie could well ruin your childhood. These next big ‘childhood’ sequels due to be released are Jurassic World, The Woman in Black: Angel of Death, and a rumoured ‘new’ Matrix trilogy.

It has been 21 years since the 1993 classic Jurassic Park reached the silver screen.

Storyline leaks have surfaced revealing the latest installment picking up from John Hammond’s dream of a reserve park/zoo/theme park comes to ‘life’. That’s right an island - where people are able to catch a ferry to from Costa Rica to play golf, fine dine, go clubbing, and pat the dinosaur.

Just like the previous three movies, there have been dinosaurs like the velociraptor that made up the movies focused predators (beside the gigantic t-rex). However, director Colin Trevorrow has stated that there will be a new cross-breed of dinosaurs created by filling the DNA gap, just like using frog DNA in the first 1998 film, but this time it will be “something bigger, louder, with more teeth” as Colin said to SlashFilm. But that doesn’t stop them from creating raptors: Chris Pratt’s character studies the behavioural research of raptors. With outside news of a new four-winged dinosaur, will we be able to see this newly discovered creature in the new Jurassic generation?

Hollywood seems to remake anything that was successful in the past, this may or may not be true for the Wachowski’s influential 1999 film The Matrix. Latino Review stated that a new trilogy is in the works when the Wachowski’s handed in “early treatments and outlines” to Warner Bros. The possibility of this happening is not near impossible, as the directors have had difficulty following up Matrix revolutions (Speed Racer, Cloud Atlas, and Jupiter Ascending). Warner Bros. Studio also ended their partnership with Legendary Pictures, leaving the studio without the Terminator franchise, and placing the studio under the reliance of DC adaptions such as the

Black Coats, Black Ghosts, & Big Teeth

Jake D Gomizelj

reliance of DC adaptions such as the upcoming Man of Steel vs Batman sequel. So with that in mind, Warner Bros. will most likely produce the next set of Matrix movies knowing that they can make money off them. To be honest, a matrix sequel could work - there are plot holes that were left untouched. For example, The Architect in Matrix: Reloaded mentioned that Neo wasn’t the first ‘one’, and don’t forget the Animatrix that explained the origins of the Matrix, how the machines were created, and the war between man vs machine that ended with scorching the sky.

A prequel to the Matrix trilogy is more than possible, yet we cannot be sure if it is a prequel with the ideas of the first one and the origin story, or a reboot of the trilogy all together. Latino Review have been right before with surfaced rumours e.g. Star Trek Into The Darkness, Star Wars 7 sequel and Independence Day 2. If this is true, I believe the movie will be released in 2017, which is looking to be an already sci-fi packed year, in order to compete with Avatar 3.

This list of rumoured reboots also includes Daniel Radcliffe (‘the boy who lived’ has grown up, leaping out of his wizard hat and robes), who has found himself in a British horror story which changed the UK genre - which is worth mentioning, even though the film was released in 2012. The fact that the movie’s grossing was the highest horror movie grossing for the UK in 20 years crowns the movie for a future sequel. Originally The Woman in Black was a novella by Susan Hill in 1983, adapted into a play in 1987 (aka. the second longest play in history), turned TV movie in 1989. The main role was then given to Adrian Rawlings, aka James Potter.

The sequel The Woman in Black: Angel of Death follows the second part of Susan Hill’s novella ‘Angels of Death’. Daniel’s

Scribble&Scribe 12

FILMREVIEW August Issue 1 achievements created success for The Woman in Black and lead him into the future with his upcoming projects. What If (2014) is set to release this month, and the book adaption of ‘Horns’ by Joe Hill is unknown as to when it will reach the Australian shores, but we do know that it will be released in the UK and the US on October the 31st, so there is still hope. The

Woman in Black: Angel of Death is due to be released in 2015 alongside Jurassic World.

Even though that movie industries do remakes, and sequels that could endanger our childhood memories. I think we need this though, we need the closure, and the right to look back at the originals and say, ‘that was an awesome movie, and this crappy sequel just made it look better’.

Happythankyoumoreplease (2010), Tom Sawyer Entertainment Bradley Wilson How I Met Your Mother’s Josh Radnor writes, directs, and acts in his directorial debut – Happythankyoumoreplease. He co-stars with Kate Mara, an actress with an extensive biography in film and television (I know her as that hot red-haired chick from House of Cards).

Sam (Radnor) is a short story writer trying, and failing, to get a novel published.

He’s washed-up with stubble, a heavy tan, and those brooding brown eyes of his (you’re welcome, ladies). On the subway to a meeting, he sees a boy named Rasheen get left behind by his foster family. Strangely enough, Rasheen doesn’t seem to care, while Sam is clearly worried and takes him to the police station. This child who Sam just met refuses to enter and so Sam sort-of adopts him off the street. Later, his friends can’t help but sound alarmed when they ask things like “Why is there a small child with you?” The morning before all of this, Sam meets eyes with Mississippi (Mara): a goddess he immediately falls for. A few days afterward he has another chance encounter with her and it seems that fate exists. After a night of drinks and an amount of flirting that’s overwhelming to watch, the two kiss (finally). Sam takes her back to his and in the midst of their encounter Mississippi refuses to have another meaningless hook-up. And that’s when Sam gets an idea. Why not put a spin on the one-night-stand and make it a three-night-stand instead? Sam writes it on

paper and the pair sign the contract, agreeing that Mississippi will live with Sam for three days. The two click, but their window to decide what they really want is getting smaller. Sam and Mississippi’s insecurities make them indecisive, and it isn’t easy to chase love when experience tells them both that the odds aren’t in their favour. Meanwhile, Sam keeps getting told to find Rasheen’s actual home before he gets arrested for kidnapping, but the two start to form a father-son bond, something that Sam has never felt before and struggles to just throw away.

Happythankyoumoreplease – captivating. This movie hits you right in the feels, and the dialogue is witty and funny throughout. My personal favourite is the running gag of Sam saying, “Fuck! Don’t swear!” to Rasheen. But there’s a lot more to Happythankyoumoreplease. It effectively explores the search for love when in your 30’s, after you’ve had your heart broken and all that bullshit. Furthermore, Sam’s illegal (but well-intended!) adoption of Rasheen brings into question flaws with the adoption system, by showing us an example where a child was clearly neglected by his foster parents. If you’re a fan of comedy-dramas (and who isn’t?), then this is a must see.

Happythankyoumoreplease is well written, has excellent cinematography, displays great acting talent, and certainly raises the bar for its genre.

Scribble&Scribe 13

TVNEWS August Issue 1

AUSFLIX AND THE END OF PIRACY Jake D. Gomizel

#NOTACH

From VCR recording to Internet downloading; failure to deliver for the Australian audience of scheduled television broadcasting may soon come to an end.

Four years ago, Netflix USA launched with the idea to stream TV series and movies directly to the home network. Unfortunately, Australia was overlooked for television streaming through ‘legal’ means. In 2013-14, Netflix stated that it would be too costly to set-up business on our shores.

Fortunately, Netflix has turned its attention back again to Australia, and according to channel nine news subscription prices will be similar to being a premium member of Spotify, and you don’t need to worry about being hunted down by Chuck Norris for downloading an illegal copy of The Expendables 2. Netflix is in negotiations with Australian producing company Village Roadshow Entertainment to outline the legalities of its services. Village Roadshow is delighted with the company's direction, and believe that people will be less inclined to illegally obtain popular TV shows once they have access to them, duh! Even so, the public have directed their fury towards the streaming company by labelling them as pirating enablers. Even with this confliction, the implementation of Netflix in the land down under appears to be concrete, and the move will change the way we view TV in Australia. While the government is trying to rid the forces of ‘evil downloaders’, Netflix

ANCE

could ‘save the day’ to making both audiences anti illegal downloading officials happy. Netflix will also contend with local streaming services with series that people would already receive, however, Netflix broad structure dominates over Australian streaming services Mubi or QuickFlix.

In 2013 HBO’s Game Of Thrones became the most downloaded series according to TorrentFreak, with a huge portion of downloads stemming from Australia. Foxtel signed a deal which doesn't allow other subscription services like Mubi, Quickflix or iTunes to download the GOT episodes as they air. According to Cineblend and The Vine, Foxtel has also been criticised by the public for encouraging illegal downloading because of the deal that left diehard fans to waiting until each series ended. George R. R. Martin ironically was like a friendly Santa Claus when he was not fazed about the outcome of Australian piracy, stating that he is aware that people will watch the show regardless due to the popularity of his story. Another point raised by these articles is the ‘failure to deliver’ by television networks in Australia, where TV series can be delayed by an entire season (channel 7). Alongside the TV industry, the film industry has had the same problem with Funny People, and The Lego Movie were released two months after the US premier.

Even if Netflix services are offered to Australia, limitations on TV series and film

“the ‘failure to deliver’ by television networks in Australia”

Scribble&Scribe 14

viewing will still be present because of the delay, and failure of television scheduling.

People will always continue to download, but many people are likely to take the alternative given the opportunity.

In an interview with ZDNet, Co-CEO of Village Roadshow Graham Burke clarified that the arrival of Netflix Australia will change the way in which we watch television, and that the online copyright infringement laws will be approached differently. Separate proposals by the Australian government about these copyright laws have been made, one of these policies include the contentious “graduated response method for deterring online copyright infringement.” Burke suggested that pirates should be targeted for down-speed reduction if caught with copyright infringement multiple times. This won’t stop iiNet users; as of 2008 iiNet was sued by the Australian television and film industry for allowing piracy, and not acting upon the infringement laws. Up-speeds were also halved because of the use of downloading that had spiked, forcing them to lower speed regulations until their customers paid more for updates controversy in the courts was then raised again in 2012-13, recent news from the iiNet board accept this claim by stating that they will protect their consumers collective data from officials. But, will this really stop people from downloading the TV series that they won’t be able to get? Considering the unlimited amount of restrictions that will make Netflix account users likely to continue downloading. Since most series are through network partnerships e.g. The CW ending there 2014 contract, taking away Supernatural, Arrow, Carrie Diaries, and True Blood.

Netflix Australia will most likely launch early 2015, and will change perspectives on copyright infringements and the downloading community; still, illegal downloading is a long way from over. Netflix will allow us the convenience to view the shows you want to watch whenever, and wherever to suit your busy schedule, however, the limitations still stand in the

way of our choices of interests in the television world. With success, Netflix will become the next major Australian broadcast system, but with the coming year ahead it may give Australian businesses a run for their money. With Australian networks Seven, Nine and TEN planning for an online streaming service (similar to ABC’s iVew); Australian networks, however innovative may fall behind a more sophisticated network in Netflix. Yet the limited selection of series rely on network partnerships, and diehard fans of such franchises (The Walking Dead) would still have to wait until Netflix releases the whole season once it is completed for binge-use; does this mean that Netflix is just like watching channel 9 (instead you can watch House of Cards).

Should we instead convert TV broadcasting to TV streaming? People will get to watch the episodes of their favourite series at the same time as it is released overseas. Simultaneously, local/national broadcasting will be available for viewing via the Internet. This can work for the audience in terms of variety, and decrease the piracy ratio because of the availability of media that can be accessed if Internet TV becomes accessible. It will also be ideal for networks, seeing that the equipment used to broadcast through airwaves is expensive compared to online streaming. But then again, businesses like Foxtel will struggle with a system that offers more variety and availability.

Scribble&Scribe

15

TVREVIEWS August Issue 1

Television Show Reviews Bradley Wilson

Sliders (1995-2000) St Claire Entertainment/Universal Television Sliders is a science-fiction show about a group of people who “slide” through portals to alternate dimensions in search of their home, and every episode features a new world that broke off from ours at some point in time. Quinn Mallory – a physics student – accidentally invents interdimensional travel while creating an anti-gravity device. He decides to go through a portal, bringing along his friend Wade, and his physics professor. A mildly successful musician known as “The Crying Man,” drives by and also gets sucked into the portal by mistake. The four land in a world riddled with snow and tornadoes. Quinn’s device has a timer counting down until their scheduled return trip, but the group must escape right away. They leave prematurely, which unfortunately clears the device’s record of their homeworld coordinates. The timer, now damaged, starts to randomly assign countdowns until the next portal to anywhere.

Sliders is a guilty-pleasure like other bizarre shows from the nineties such as Buffy or Stargate, where the most exciting but ridiculous things happen (and let’s not forget all of the puns!). The first season mostly revolves around alternate outcomes of wars or political movements, but the show later introduces dinosaurs, mutants, twisted societies, and advanced civilisations. Sliders is hands-down the show to watch when you want to let your imagination go wild and I highly recommend checking it out.

Archer (2010-present) Floyd County Productions/Radical Axis/FX Productions Archer is an animated black comedy about a government agency called ISIS, run by the least serious agents in existence. Archer is the main field agent, akin to James Bond though much more egotistical and alcoholic. There’s also: his mother; the boss, Lana; the star agent with a temper, Cyrill; the dork, Carol; the ditz, Pam; the pot smoker, Dr. Krieger; the creeper, and Ray; the gay analyst. They are one of the most socially backward groups on TV who are not afraid to speak their minds. The agents at ISIS also get into those awkward trains of thought that go nowhere. For instance when Dr. Krieger is asked to give someone therapy, he replies “I’m not that kind of doctor…” and continues deep in thought “....I’m not the other kind either…” The agents at ISIS are also just awful to each other and it’s hilarious. When one of the agents gets shot, for example, Archer yells at the man writhing in pain not to bleed on the office carpet. If you’re the sort of person who loves horribly inappropriate comments (ironically of course), then Archer is definitely for you.

Scribble&Scribe 16

THEATREREVIEWS August Issue 1

The Breakfast Review Eleanor Hawksworth Fun fact: Theatre isn’t just for rich people. There’s a stigma ‘round these parts that QPAC is Brisbane’s only home of quality performance. But did you know that there are plays produced in other buildings around the city? Well, now you do. Don’t be fooled into thinking that dishing out $100 a ticket will guarantee entertainment, either. Chances are, QPAC’s newest hit is just another Rob Mills musical, anyway.

Instead, look beyond the big beige building in South Bank, and search for the ‘Robin Hood’ theatres of Brisbane. The Powerhouse, Metro Arts and Brisbane Arts theatres, to name a few, all steal Broadway-tier productions from the world’s snootier audiences and present them to penniless schmucks like you and me. So, in celebration of playhouses sticking it to the man, what better production to review than: The Breakfast Club Where: Brisbane Arts Theatre When: 29 June - 2 August 2014 Director: Susan O’Toole An eager-to-please adaptation of John Hughes’ 1985 cult film, Brisbane Arts Theatre’s first production of The Breakfast Club captures every ounce of teen confusion and clique separation of the original flick - but still appears a little confused itself.

Upon entry into the cosy theatre, an audience enters the cramped confines of a Saturday detention: the aquamarine walls and flimsy plastic furniture of a typical 20th century high school classroom, where the play’s five leads soon enter. Each character is the perfect representation of a 1980s senior-school coterie - a brain, an athlete, a basket case, a princess and a criminal. Whilst initially cold and stand-offish toward one another, the students soon set their hostilities aside, gradually revealing that each classmate is more than their stereotype shows.

As a whole, the cast is commendable, each actor sticking to the silence or swagger that their role requires of them - perhaps a surprising element of an amateur production. Still, there are standout actors, funnily enough those often left in the back of the scene: the thespians portraying Andrew, Brian and Allison, the ‘athlete’, ‘brain’ and ‘basket-case’ of the story, all impressively stay visibly in character, even when the scene is dominated by another.

The roles are flaunted in similar fashion to the ‘80s classic, and aren’t the only reminiscent quality. Director Susan O’Toole recreates Hughes’ every exact detail, from the movie’s dialogue right down to criminal Bender’s foot-bandana. In fact, the play rarely diverges from Hughes’ Breakfast Club at all, and unfortunately it is this familiarity that lets the production down.

While O’Toole understandably lacked wiggle room to change the story without failing its characters, a creative shift in time or aesthetic may have let the play shine a little brighter. After all, if modern audiences can access The Breakfast Club at the click of a computer mouse, why the need for a stage adaptation that only mirrors the film? Why not exploit the medium of live entertainment? Consider recent stage adaptations of Matilda or Mary Poppins - both seize the opportunity to truly wow their spectators in areas where their books and films could not.

Despite its flaws, the play undoubtedly deserves credit for daring to take on such a popular story, and for delivering plenty of the emotional drive and synth-pop cheer of a teenage masterpiece. But for a Hughes fan sitting through a mere repetition of his exact script, music and story, the production may feel more like an evening in detention than a journey back to yesteryear.

Scribble&Scribe 17

TRAVELGUIDE August Issue 1

BucketLust; The insatiable desire to complete all 297 items upon one’s Bucket List before turning 30.

Renae Grinlaubs

Above: The only way to get up into the jungle...

Bucket List Item #37: Find the world’s biggest flower, Cameron Highlands, Malaysia.

Spoiler alert: it’s NOT a flower.

Before I jump into the story of Item #37, let me explain my Bucket List to you. I was bitten by the travel bug at the ripe old age of four, when my family moved to Thailand and I started school there. Since then, I’ve struggled with an insatiable hunger for ALL the quirky places the world has to offer. So I compiled a list of 297 travel items to be completed by the time I turn thirty. Game on!

The Cameron Highlands in Malaysia is known for harbouring the world’s largest flower in its tepid jungles. If this wasn’t enough justification to put it on my Bucket List, the promise of native tribal culture, 4WD adventures, and some of the most rare species of birds in the world, made it a must-see for me. But after four hours of hot, messy warfare with the Malaysian jungle, I clambered up yet another vine to find myself face-to-face with a giant mushroom. Honestly, it looked like a mushroom that had just hit puberty -- a gigantic, flushed pink, covered-in-acne natural concoction. It was no wondrous super flower...but it was incredibly big and spotty (and smelly). Beware the BO of this shroom. At that point, after climbing Tomb Raider-style up vines and across ravines upon bamboo bridges, all I could think was, ‘Is it edible?’ The adventure was totally worth it, but jungle fighting sure does give you an appetite. Lucky there was amazing local food waiting for us on the other side of the mountain.

Scribble&Scribe 18

Above: Monsoon clouds gather above the tea plantations.

The Cameron Highlands host a patchwork of cultures. If you’re staying in Tanah Rata you can find some killer Indian (try curry for breakfast, you won’t be disappointed), incredible wild jungle, and tribes that still survive off the land with blow-darts and poison-bark. There are an array of casual bars to grab a drink, - but don’t expect cheap Asia prices—and it is a genuine feast for the adventure-hungry. If relaxing if more your style though, the Cameron Highlands also feature some of the world’s biggest tea plantations, and the place is overflowing with tea shops and tours of the plantations. Did you know most of our black tea comes from the plantations in the Cameron Highlands? Thousands of acres of jungle have been cleared to make way for the neat lines of tea bushes, which means that the native inhabitants have been restricted to increasingly smaller patches of jungle. However, the tribes still have dominion over the world’s biggest flower, and as a tourist you have to pay a local guide to take you into the jungle and find it. This tourism is a small compensation for the loss of land to tea plantations, but it’s a source of income for locals and also wonderful experience for tourists to learn about tribal life while clambering up mountains.

Above: Rafflesia- proving quantity definitely doesn’t mean more than quality.

The flower is scientifically named Rafflesia, but more accurately known as ‘corpse flower’ for its stench. Rafflesia only blooms for three weeks each year and each flower lasts for just 5-7

Scribble&Scribe

19

days. It can grow up to two metres in diameter and is called ‘corpse flower’ for its stench of rotting flesh. Sounds worth the hike, huh? It is places like this that truly exemplify the adage: ‘the journey is more important than the destination’. The journey includes following a tribal elder along a path that he carves with a machete, while monsoonal rains soak everything in sight, and make the jungle smell fresh and tangy. He warns of poisonous bark, wild tigers, and vines that will shred your clothes along with the flamboyant birds who eye our backpacks and snacks. My muscles were already sore as we began the hike because the jeep had jolted us (without seatbelts or windows - local-style) across monsoon-drenched 4WD tracks for an hour to get to the reserve entrance. The hike began with a tiny bamboo bridge across a river-filled ravine, which was spectacular—read terrifying—and wobbled precariously with each step. And it was all uphill from there. The most exciting thing about this type of uphill though, was that we climbed up vines to get through the wet undergrowth. The foliage was so thick in some parts that we had to pull ourselves up until we reached a patch that the guide could machete through. But adventure is infectious, and despite being covered in sweat, mud and mosquito bites, we all felt like old-world botanists trekking to find the world’s largest flower.

Above: One of the many bamboo bridges on the hike.

Malaysia has loads more to offer if monsoonal rains, and giant ‘flowers’ aren’t your thing.

There are plenty of pretty beaches and cliché holiday resorts to cater to every traveller’s tastes.

For students, Malaysia (or Kuala Lumpur) is usually just a stopover on the way to somewhere else-- but if you take the time to really get into the country, it’s well worth the six nerve-wracking hours around cliff edges on an old bus to get to the Cameron Highlands. It’s surprisingly developed (compared to India- Bucket List Item #121) and very easy to get around with English.

Asia is perhaps best known for it’s party destinations such as Thailand or Vietnam but Malaysia provides wilderness, vicious 4WD tracks, incredible wildlife, and fascinating tribal culture. If you get the chance to go there- even as a stopover- take an extra week and visit the Cameron Highlands. Who knows, if you’re there at the right time, you might just find yourself a giant pubescent mushroom. If Malaysia is part of a trip to Southeast Asia for you, consider some other beautiful stopovers such as Sihanoukville in Cambodia (Bucket List Item #19) or Vang Vieng in Laos (#83).

Next stop: Bucket List Item #52: Find wild tigers and rhinoceros’ in Nepal.

Scribble&Scribe

20

FOODLINK August Issue 1

Food for Nought Edward Paxton So it’s your first year at uni? Maybe you've just moved out of home and are finally embracing the real uni lifestyle? Then you might finally be shedding off all the family habits you’ve inherited over the years. One of them being the quality of what passes through the all consuming black hole which is your mouth. Now, you may be thinking that every night you will eat like a king: potato bake, quiche, lasagne, or even dinner on the town with friends. You’d be naive to think this.

Here’s the bad news: a uni student is hardly better off than a beggar, and at least a beggar has the satisfaction of working for himself. Like a beggar, a uni student exclusively eats meals with a sprinkle of

monotony, a handful of cheap, and a dash of yuck. You will soon learn that your shopping basket includes cheap produce, the already out of date items, and (in dire circumstances) discarded items on store floors. Fighting the checkout chick for every salvageable cent becomes a weekly occurrence. Forget free range, farm fresh, or healthy eating; just settle for eating. But don't despair; you're in safe hands. I, Edward Paxton, will teach you how to survive and maintain the right amount of energy to get you through the daily stress levels that you will come to despise.

Obviously, you will need a hearty breakfast to get you through the day. A breakfast that is both filling and nutritious. How about porridge? But wait! Your lazy, good-fornothing flatmate has left the milk out the previous night and it's all chewy. Never fear because I have the answer, and here it is:

Recipe Ingredients 1 1/2 cups of oats (99c from the supermarket) 1 1/2 cups of water (not free but the closest you will get) Method: 1. Bung this in a saucepan.

2. Boil it until it forms a gloop (not gruel).

3. Chuck it in a bowl and add as much sugar as you see fit.

Buying oats in bulk is a real money-saver. Suddenly, you have your weekly breakfast plan (and sometimes dinner) all sorted out. But it's not all doom and gloom, slops and gruel. With the money you've saved on breakfast you have enough to splurge on a Merlo’s coffee once a week.

We’ve all got to be poncy every once in a while.

Scribble&Scribe 21

HOROSCOPES August Issue 1

Horoscopes Quentin J. Cobbler

Aquarius (20 Jan – 18 Feb): Be careful not to prioritise your workload over your need for downtime. You can finish your assessment later, after you’ve finished re-watching Breaking Bad. Pisces (19 Feb – 20 Mar): Pluto has entered your star-sign and it’s pretty pissed about no longer being considered a planet. Double-check your shoes for spiders in the following weeks - you just never know.

Aries (21 Mar – 19 Apr): Aries, my third eye is hazy for you. I’m getting something about goats maybe you should avoid them. Or seek them out, whichever sounds better for you.

Taurus (20 Apr – 20 May): Saturn’s sausage moon is high for you this month. This means you are in luck and may find a sausage sizzle somewhere on campus. It would be advisable to take advantage of this rare treat.

Gemini (21 May – 20 Jun): You may meet an old friend or past lover soon. Don’t be afraid to let your feelings show, as they definitely still have that book you lent them months ago and you both know it.

Cancer (21 Jun – 22 Jul): An urge to change your hairstyle will come to you. Resist it.

Leo (23 Jul – 22 Aug): You will break new culinary ground this month when you finally manage to get the last of the seasoning oil out of your mi goreng flavouring packet.

Virgo (23 Aug – 22 Sep): Congratulations! This month, other people will actually laugh at your quick-witted reply to a lecturer’s question.

Libra (23 Sep – 22 Oct): It’s time to put your work projects aside and meet some new people.

Pick up some hand sanitizer and hit the Valley, perhaps you will find your soulmate.

Scorpio (23 Oct – 21 Nov): Mercury has opened the five portals of financial stability in your star sign this month, Scorpios, so now would be a good time to buy a lotto ticket or apply to Centrelink.

Sagittarius (22 Nov – 21 Dec): You will have an argument with a friend or lover this month concerning the housework. Consider cleaning your dishes with soap next time to avoid hostility.

Capricorn (22 Dec – 19 Jan): Bad news, Capricornites. Somebody will park their car on top of yours, causing you a slight inconvenience. Will you leave a passive aggressive note, or will you just post a status about it on Facebook?

Scribble&Scribe

22

SHOUTOUT August Issue 1 Contact Information Lucas Medcraft – president@uqgermanclub.com Joshua Lovett - secretary@uqgermanclub.com Andrew Young - events@uqgermanclub.com Dahra Rez - advertising@uqgermanclub.com

UQ German Club

The UQ German Club aims to promote a welcoming academic environment through which students of German studies are able to enhance their language skills, cultural awareness, appreciation, and historical knowledge. We are open to all students, and provide a variety of social and educational activities.

Events o

Eurovision

o

Oktoberfest celebrations

o

Industry engagement seminars

o

German study sessions

o

International ball

o

Trivia nights

For more information contact us on Facebook: www.facebook.com/UQGermanClub

Scribble&Scribe 23

Acting and Recreational Theatre Society (ARTS)

The ARTS is a social drama club founded and run by University of Queensland students although anyone is welcome to get involved. We offer weekly events that give you the opportunity to explore your creative ideas, build acting skills, learn about the performing arts, appreciate theatre and meet like-minded people.

Are you a born-and-bred thespian? A nostalgic ex-high school drama clubber? A novice who just wants to give it a crack? Then this club is for you! 'LIKE' our Facebook page for information about our upcoming events, as well as information about what's going on in the Brisbane theatre scene.

This semester we’re putting together our showcase, which will be performed in Week 9. We’re looking for people to get involved so contact us if you’re interested in performing or backstage.

Events: o

The ARTS UQ Showcase

o

Acting & Skill-building workshops

o

Organised outings to performances and exhibitions.

o

Social events such as Theatre Sports & Trivia nights

For more information contact us on Facebook: www.facebook.com/theARTSUQ

Scribble&Scribe

24

Contact Information Isobella Stone (Secretary) – bellastone@live.com.au Alexander Fisher (Treasurer) – alexander.fisher2@gmail.com

UQ Oaktree

In keeping with the work of the nationwide Oaktree movement UQ Oaktree is a youth run charity initiative to end extreme poverty in our lifetime. Our focus is on education, especially in the Asia-Pacific region.

Events o

o o

Involvement in charity, and activism events o Live Below the Line o The Roadtrip to End Poverty Trivia nights Social gatherings

For more information contact:

www.facebook.com/uqoaktree

ADVERTISE WITH US If you are a club or society, and you want to promote yourself. This is the place for you.

This page is created to benefit you in two ways.

1. Awareness to gain potential members 2. Awareness of other clubs to create relationships, and potential cross-cultural events.

If you are interested, follow the link bellow and send an enquiry email by following the prompts. www.uqwritersclub.com/contact

Scribble&Scribe

25

SHORTSTORIES August Issue 1

WORD WAR W Short Story Contributions

Scribble&Scribe 26

The Writer

Callum Hornsby The Writer sits in his chair, eyes fixed on the blank document filling his computer screen.

He takes a deep breath, and then, this Lieutenant of Linguistics, this Maestro of Metaphor, this Champion of Characterization, does what he does best: smashes his head against the keyboard in frustration. He dimly hopes that the ideas lodged between his ears will tumble from his brain and splash themselves across the screen. He longs for them to take the shape of some wondrous and well-structured classic. Looking up he sees “hy7u6hjunt5grfvhyjugtfvrhjuy” produced by his blunt-head-trauma style of writing. He deletes the throbbing mess of symbols, and starts afresh.

In his head, he can sense the proverbial monkeys and the fabled typewriters required to write the greatest novel known to man, but they are lost in the wild jungle of his creative “genius.” Motivation, traits, background, setting, relationships, employment, favourite colour, favourite movie, least favourite; Golden Girl: every detail no matter how minor or insignificant, float around his brain like a seething swarm of hornets. He stares at the mocking white space.

Longing to fill it, to neatly transcribe his every thought onto the page in a way that flows and captivates his hypothetical readership. But, every time he puts his fingers to the keyboard, the figurative jungle explodes outward, resulting in a messy, convoluted, highly irrelevant disaster besmirching the once pristine document. Once more, the backspace key comes to his rescue.

There is a classic in him somewhere.

Maybe I should just leave the mess, he thinks desperately. Maybe I can fix it later?

He discards the idea; not even the literary titans could salvage that muddle of selfindulgence. He wracks his brain, turning every idea in every possible way, hoping that eventually, some convenient logic will string everything together.

Three cups of coffee later and he’s still turning.

Enough! He puts his mug down firmly. Okay, where to start…

He muddies the purity of the document once again, this time with a single word.

“Phil” Let’s start with the main character.

“Phil is a… Detective” Flashes of some 1920s noir P.I. flood his mind.

Nope. Backspace goes to work, snuffing out the setting like Detective Phil’s last black and white cigarette.

Scribble&Scribe

27

“Phil is a… Florist?”

Hell no. The idea is cut down before it can bloom and flourish.

“Phil is a… Pilot Astronaut Rockstar Doctor Drug Dealer Meth Addict Loser Deadbeat Father Writer” Forget what Phil is. Focus on the important points, says The Writer firmly to himself.

“Phil has mother issues.”

Eureka, a start!

The Writer applauds himself, chuffed at his decision making ability. But the victory is short lived. He begins to contemplate the next major issue; How exactly does one show mother issues? “‘No mum, I hate you!’ yelled Phil into the receiver, before slamming it down on the desk.”

Wow. The Writer stares at the opening sentence. He is left in a state of bewilderment. He isn’t showing the reader Phil has mother issues. Hell, he isn’t even telling the reader that Phil has mother issues; he is writing, “Phil has mother issues” on the side of a tuna and slapping the reader across the face with it. Never has The Writer witnessed something so obvious, so blunt and bald and lacking in subtlety. He sent the line into oblivion, leaving only “Phil,” lonely against the white expanse of the page. He thought quickly about how to add some depth to the opening.

“Phil clutched a copy of ‘Oedipus Rex’ in his hands. His eyes roved the myriad of words, absorbing the Greek tale with greed and lust for more. That is, until his eyes fell on one, single word. ‘Jocasta.’ Phil dropped the book in despair.”

Now he was at the other side of the spectrum; perhaps this was just a little too subtle for the hypothetical reader. Perhaps the average person wouldn’t know who or what a “Jocasta” is and why that implied a difficult motherly relationship. On that note, maybe the implication was a little too incestuous for The Writer’s literary needs. Worse still, this attempted classical reference did not exude notions of well-crafted storytelling or substance, like his Modernist forbearers. No, this half-arsed use of intertextuality had but one effect: it made The Writer look really pretentious.

Maybe I should actually read the book, before using it in my story, thought The Writer as he destroyed evidence, once again leaving “Phil” alone on the page. This was a recurring thought too, and it reminded The Writer that he really needed to read more.

The minute hand had rolled halfway around the clock since The Writer had last touched the keyboard. He sips his third or fourth “last coffee for the night”, and contemplates what he was trying to do. His mental jungle had been brutally hacked apart and regrown multiple times, each time becoming more untamed, more outlandish, more impossibly detailed; not one iteration, however, proved any more transcribable.

Enough.

Summoning a passion and fury that had been building all night, The Writer takes to the keyboard with blazing fingers. Phil is no longer alone. The empty vacuum becomes filled with more and more tiny black characters, and finally The Writer can see his brilliant idea mapped out on the page. His fingers come to a halt. He pushes away from his desk, and looks out the

Scribble&Scribe

28

window. The sun, which had just sunk under the horizon when he had started, was now just poking into the sky, dispelling the darkness with its splintering shards of light. He looks back to the screen. His heart sinks. Thirteen lines stares back at him.

“Phil is a dude and he has issues with h9is mother and he doesn’t really like her but at the same time kinda does and he blames her for being kinda fucked up but he isn’;t really he just thinks he is cos he doesbn’t really know anyone else who has worse problems and deep down he knows he’s as normal as anyone else but he want s to be special so he makes himself think he’;s weird and at the same time hates being weord and wants to be normal and blames it on his mother but she dies and he feels bad and he relaises he’s a dick and should get over himself and it isn’t really her fault he gripped with self doubt or whatever else cos he knows she loves him and he relaises he loves her too, and it’s sad that he never got to say good bye.”

Ten hours. Fourteen lines. Fourteen lines of poorly spelled, poorly punctuated, rambling nonsense. He reads over the disaster a few times. Most productive night all week, he thinks with a sigh. It’s too late to fix it. At least he has something on the page.

Tomorrow, he’ll edit and expand and whatever else needs to be done to make it readable, let alone the emotional piece of literature that he knows, deep down, it can be. And I should probably call my mother; he contemplates, reading over it one final time. But that is a task for a later time. Now, The Writer must sleep.

Scribble&Scribe

29

The Buddha Complex Renae Grinlaubs Based on a true story...

Kapilavastu, Nepal, 534BC. The elephant screamed. Splinters of wood jutted out of her skin. Blood pooled around her cracked toenails and formed mirrors that showed me red clouds in a morbid sky.

“Stab her a little more to the left, Siddhartha,” my father called to me.

He stood just above the carnage, upon the temple steps. The elephant was trumpeting now, shaking her head at me and blowing specks of blood from her trunk. I gripped my sphya more tightly and felt splinters shredding my palms. Little grains of wood in my flesh to mimic the long wooden stake - my sphya - that would soon pierce her heart.

“This is not jakta, Siddhartha. Jakta is to kill with one clean stroke. She cannot suffer,” my father called again.

I ignored him and raised the sphya for the fourth time. I watched rivulets of blood form patterns across her wrinkled skin. What stories did the wrinkles remember? A familiar pattern formed across the spot where her heart must be. It was a sign. The Goddess Kali would guide my hand.

She was the goddess of time and death, after all. She wanted this sacrifice. *** “He must know poverty,” Asita said.

“He is to be King,” Channa replied, shaking his head at the old man and continuing to groom the chestnut stallion beside him.

“He must know suffering. He must know compassion,” Asita said.

“It is not my place,” Channa said, roughly brushing Kanthaka until the stallion pinned his ears in warning at him.

“You are his servant. It is your duty,” Asita continued.

“At birth the King forbade him to see anything beyond the palace. That has not changed.”

“Then you must change it. Take him away. Show him the people. Let him truly see the world,” Asita stared hard at Channa as he spoke.

“Prophet Asita, I am Shudra. Aside from the Untouchables, I am of the lowest caste. You could have me killed for speaking to you. I cannot speak to one of the Kshatriya without order, let alone the Prince.”

“This system must change. But as you pointed out, you need orders. I am Brahmin, no? A priest of the highest caste?”

“Yes, but—” “Then will my order suffice?”

“Please—”

Scribble&Scribe

30

“Prince Siddhartha cannot kill you with compassion, Channa. But you will bring about the death of many more if you do not assist me in this. Take him out. Show him beyond the walls,” Asita said.

Channa stopped grooming Kanthaka and turned to meet the prophet’s milky eyes. How do those strange white eyes show such kindness? He thought. An elephant trumpeted somewhere beyond the stables; another sacrifice for the blood-thirsty goddess. Dying makes such a terrible noise, Channa thought. He felt absorbed by the old man’s sightless eyes and was suddenly nauseated by sorrow for the thousands of sacrificial animals that would die across India and Nepal before the sun had set. The Goddess Kali demanded blood and death in exchange for spiritual purification and change. Why do people pray for change instead of making the change? Channa thought.

“You know there is a better way,” Asita said, reaching a palm to Channa’s forehead. Kanthaka snorted and shoved Channa’s shoulder, breaking the eye contact between the men.

“I will do it,” Channa said, and the dogs marked for sacrifice began to howl. *** There was so much blood. My mirrors had turned into ponds, and splinters of wood floated atop the blood that shrouded her massive body. I was disappointed. Triumph, or conquest, or at least some kind of divine connection was what I was expecting when I finally drove the sphya into her heart. But there was only blood - hers and mine - smeared across my face as I tried to wipe the tears before my father saw.

“The Goddess will be pleased. You have helped bring change, Siddhartha. Goddess Kali will save Kapilavastu from the Kosalan Empire now,” my father said.

I could vividly recall the last Kosalan raid upon Kapilavastu. A few hundred warriors had come and demanded human tributes for their sacrificial rites. Our warrior caste - the Kshatriya - had beaten them back easily, but the Kosala would be back.

“So I cannot leave the palace?” I asked.

“There is nothing for you beyond these walls, Siddhartha. You may go to the summer or winter palaces if you wish, but only after the mahabali is complete.”

“How many more must die for it to be mahabali, father? Does it not simply mean a great sacrifice? Hundreds have been killed!”

“The Goddess needs sacrifice to save us, son. They are only animals. If they could speak, I am sure they would be glad for their sacrifice.”

“Perhaps, but they do not have voices, so we cannot know. But we can know what the people outside these walls have to say about mahabali. Please may I leave the palace to speak with our people?” I tried to contain my sulky expression with little success.

“There are plenty of people in the palaces. Speak to them if you must, but none below your caste. Once the prophecy is fulfilled, you may do as you please,” said my father, suddenly sounding more a King.

He delicately sidestepped the blood upon the terrace as he left. For twenty-nine dry seasons I had waited to see the outside world. I was trapped by opulence and felt undeserving. There were many people who would benefit more from my wealth than me, I was sure. I just needed to meet them. Did they enjoy the sacrificial killings as my father did? Why did I feel such sadness as the elephant fell and the soul was taken from her eyes? I could imagine our brutal Goddess Kali

Scribble&Scribe

31

reaching into the wound I had inflicted upon the elephant and putting the soul between her teeth. Why would you save us, Kali? I wondered. If the Kosala come, there will be more blood in your honour than you could ever dream of. *** Asita listened to proceedings and sighed. He heard spluttering and desperate footfalls as the attendants tried to restrain the King. He had heard the cough, felt the tremor in the King’s hand, and smelt the blood on his breath. The seizures were coming regularly now, and Asita knew that death was beckoning. Nobody had told Siddhartha yet, and it was crucial that he stayed ignorant until the prophecy was fulfilled, or Kapilavastu would be lost to the Kosala when they next raided.

“He must be... the Chakravartin. He must be the new King,” Asita heard the convulsions in King Suddhodana’s voice as he spluttered the words between coughs.

“The prophecy foretells of Siddhartha becoming either King or a great holy leader, King Suddhodana. His position as Chakravartin is not specifically foretold,” Asita replied, turning his blind eyes to face the King. He could hear the effects of his gaze; the King’s breathing eased, and the thumping of his limbs upon the brickwork became quiet.

“You must live until the prophecy is complete or he will be forced to take the throne prematurely,” Asita said. He heard no response other than the soft snores of the King and relieved shuffling of his attendants. *** “Your father is dying, Sire,” Channa said, tightening Kanthaka’s girth and avoiding my eyes. I was surprised to feel excitement at the news. My confinement was almost over. Kanthaka nipped Channa and I grinned at the horse.

“Sire? Are you okay?” Channa asked. I knew I shouldn’t be smiling, but I could not help it. My aunt Pajapati had always said I was too honest, and I suppose my face could not hide the truth either.

“I am...surprised. This news...what ails him?” I said, as Kanthaka nipped Channa again and I struggled to compose myself. The stallion gave me an excuse to smile.

“It was a bite, Sire, from a mosquito.”

“How long does he have?”

“A few days, they say,” Channa said, looking at the stable floor. I thought of the time that my father had taught me to hunt on a trip to the palace reserves. I shut my eyes. We were hunting a tiger then, for a sacrifice day in my twelfth year. I had watched him stabbing the mother tiger as her cubs growled from the underbrush, and wondered if I would ever be capable of killing like that. My father had taken the cubs too, as an offering of youth for the Goddess Kali. I had cried that night and tried to muffle my sadness with my robe so that my father did not think me weak.

“Sire? Will you ride with me?” Channa asked.

“Excuse me?”

“Sorry, I know I should not speak out of place, I only thought-“ “Channa, you have been my closest friend for my whole life. You may speak openly.”

“But I am Shudra, sire. I am below you.”

Scribble&Scribe

32

“You are human, Channa. You are just like me.”

Channa looked taken aback at my comment, and I watched him chew words for a minute before he finally spoke.

“I thought perhaps we should go into Kapilavastu.”

“Channa, you know I am not allowed beyond these walls. You have always refused my requests to leave. Why now?”

“I worry for you, Sire. Your father is dying. I only want your happiness, and I thought that perhaps going beyond the palace may take your mind off things.”

“I cannot disobey my father on his deathbed.”

Kanthaka bobbed his neck as I rubbed it, and I found myself desperate to escape and run free as I imagined the stallion doing as a foal. I imagined the wind delivering exotic smells from new places and his hooves taking him there. It would be wonderful.

“Please, Sire. Let us go and see the people who will be your subjects,” Channa said, grabbing my arm. Bells began to toll from the palace.

“What do three tolls mean, Channa?”

“Perhaps it is an indication that there will soon be a new King. The people will be expecting you.”

There was sorrow in his eyes, and deception in his tone, but I had waited too long for this moment. Now was my chance to leave. *** “Om mani padme hum...” Jewel in the lotus. The beggar recited the mantra to each passerby as they made their way to the palace with offerings for the King’s death. Jewel in the lotus, he thought, is it purifying me or them? Perhaps I cannot be purified now that I am an Untouchable... but when I was Geshe... A humid breeze interrupted his thoughts with the smell of a corpse and garam masala, and he was ashamed that his mouth watered. How long had it been since he had tasted sweet spices? He was thrown apples or bananas occasionally, like the trick monkeys on the corner of the street. But it had been at least two years since his last true meal. Before he was stripped of his caste and branded as one of the Untouchables.

“Om mani padme hum...” Geshe closed his eyes, consumed by the hunger pains in his stomach.

He heard the footfalls of a passerby and recited the mantra without bothering to look. Garam masala and rotting flesh continued to torment his nose. The corpse belonged to his friend, Jai, who had died from the mosquito virus three days ago. It had been a messy end, and the beggar’s muslin robe was still stained with Jai’s blood and vomit.

“Hello?” The beggar sat up as someone spoke to him. This was different.

“Hello? Are you okay? Why are you sitting on the side of the road?” Siddhartha asked as he dismounted Kanthaka and knelt beside the beggar, instinctively recoiling at the smell before composing himself.

“What is your name?” Siddhartha asked. Geshe considered the situation. If he answered, he could be killed for speaking above his caste. But the hunger pains would disappear if he died. It was a tempting fate.

“I am Geshe—uh, I mean, I am Untouchable,” Geshe said. Nobody had asked for his name in a long time.

Scribble&Scribe

33

“Why are you sitting here Geshe? Do you need help?”

“I have nowhere else to be.”

“Do you have no family or friends?”

“The Charkravartin killed my family when I was made Untouchable for speaking to a higher caste member. And my last friend lies over there,” Geshe beckoned to the corpse, swallowing guiltily.

Siddhartha and Channa walked over to it.

“Channa, what is this?” Siddhartha asked.

“It is a dead man, Sire.”

“Why is he dead?”

“I don’t know, Sire.”

“Why is he on the side of the road?”

“I don’t know, Sire,” Channa shifted his weight between his feet and wrung his hands, keeping his eyes from the dead man and Siddhartha.

“Is this common out here, Channa?”

“I don’t know, Sire.”

Channa’s knuckles were white with strain, and he struggled to swallow nervous bile. Geshe could see the other man’s confusion and wondered how he could not know of all the deaths in Kapilavastu. He swallowed anxiously and began to speak.

“It is common. That was my friend Jai that you are looking at. If you walk along this road some more, you will find my other friends Shrii and Dilgo, and many more. Some died in the last Kosalan raid, some from the mosquito virus and others for being Untouchable. The dead line the road as far as you can walk,” Geshe said.

Siddhartha considered the road, licking the dust from his lips. His brows were drawn close above eyes that burned frantically, but without fever.

“You should not speak with him, Sire,” Channa said.

“I like to hear his words. He is different from the palace people,” Siddhartha replied.

“He is Untouchable. You have never seen one before because your father forbade it, but he is not worthy of your gaze, let alone your words. Let us move away.”

“Channa, he is human. Untouchable is merely a name that another human, my father in fact, gave him. Human is a thing he was before that and will be after that. Prince is a name given to me, but I too will always be first and last a human. That makes Geshe and I just the same.”

“Please, Sire, I have made a mistake bringing you here. Let us return to the palace. I fear your father may have died.”

“I know he is dead, Channa, and I know your deceit about the bells. But there are living people that I can help out here. I must. ” Siddhartha looked at Geshe, who looked as if he were being strangled by unspoken words.

“Speak, my friend,” Siddhartha said.

Scribble&Scribe

34

“You will be walking a long way if you mean to help every beggar. We line the road from here to southern India, and litter every village along the way,” Geshe said.

“You see, Channa? There are so many that I must help.”

“Sire, you are the Charkravarta now. It is your duty to govern Kapilavastu.”

“No, I am still just human. Charkravarta is just another name. I will not take it. Perhaps I will take another name, but not today. I must sit in contemplation of this human condition and find a solution to this death and poverty. Maybe I shall lead, but not by virtue of my birthright. People may follow my way if they choose, but I shall not govern. Come, Channa, and Geshe. Let us return to the palace to say our goodbyes.” *** Channa spat blood onto the tiles. He could hear screams outside the palace and the dull clanging of swords. The Kosala had come again and the people of Kapilavastu were unprepared, still mourning for their King.

“Stop worrying, Channa,” Asita said, and Channa wondered if the blind man knew that he was chewing his lip again.

“Siddhartha locked himself away three nights ago. He must eat. He could be dead now!” Channa pounded a fist into the ornate wooden door beside him.

“Worrying is useless, Channa. You cannot make him come any sooner than he will. He is in deep contemplation,” Asita said.

Shouts in the hallway made both men forget Siddhartha. Two Kshatriyan warriors came up the stairway with their massive khukuri swords above their heads. The dim candlelight shimmered across sweaty muscles and dull iron blades. They paused to consider the blind old man and the attendant. Asita met the stares calmly, smelling nervousness in their sweat.

“We must move Siddhartha, now,” Asita said.

“I am here, Asita,” said a quiet voice from behind them. Channa turned to see Siddhartha standing in the doorway, beaming as if holding a newborn. *** Asita listened to a herd of deer grazing below his grassy knoll and smiled. The prophecy was almost fulfilled. Five ascetics – bhikkus – had come to hear the first sermon of Siddhartha, who was now known as Buddha. Without a king, the Kosalan Empire had taken control of Kapilavastu and ensured the continued religious slaughter of animals and Untouchables. But none of that mattered. They had escaped into northern India in time. Peace would not come upon the back of a Kshatriya’s horse this time; it would come from within. Asita moved his blind gaze towards the ommm he knew to be Siddhartha. The ommm stopped and Asita knew their gazes were meeting.

He felt movement approaching and a cool palm laid upon his forehead. Asita nodded his acknowledgment and Siddhartha moved back to his position beneath the great Boddhi tree. The fresh spring breeze paused, and Asita realised he was holding his breath.

“Bhikkus, these two extremes should not be followed by one who has gone forth into homelessness...” Siddhartha spoke as if shaping the spring breeze into words and Asita could felt it across his cheeks and in his throat. He could smell his own relieved tears before he felt them.

This sermon was a beginning. Never has India heard words of peace before. But now they shall be spoken until they are heard, he thought.

Scribble&Scribe

35

RADDIWALA Manasi Jiwrajka

Mrs D’Souza wore floral frocks and had curly black hair that matched all the clubs in a deck of cards had surrounded her small head. She taught English at Mount Mary, the local convent school that allowed boys to study with girls.

Mrs D’Souza knew Ravinder Kumar Gawde aka “Aye Raddiwala!” aka Ravi even before his father had died. Ravi would accompany his father to their house to collect raddi. Mrs D’Souza thought he was a smart young fellow with charming looks, something quite unique for a raddiwala akaScrapwala aka The Oldnewspaperwala aka The Recycling Guy. She would see the young man in the corner next to the elevator, reading a magazine or a newspaper while his father put the bottles and papers in the brown, jute bag. Once Mr. Gawde Sr. had collected the raddi for the week, Ravi would place the magazine or the newspaper he was reading in the back pocket of his pants, pick up most of the bags and leave. Mrs D’Souza would also spot him in the corner chai shop reading women’s magazines that she had given to Mr. Gawde Sr. She would never go into the chai shop herself but she glanced in often.

Ravi was not an ordinary raddiwala who sold raddi for money, he had the charm and the wit to exchange it for other luxuries and necessities. Who didn’t need old newspapers and magazines?

He had a barter set up with the Bewda Bhelpuriwala akathe bhelpuri-wala, who was called ‘Bewda’ because he was always drunk. Ravi had read all the newspapers that his father collected, and used an Oxford English pocket dictionary from his raddi to find the meanings of the words he didn’t know. Like ‘investment’ and homonyms that confused him. Why was a ‘press’ not an iron?

“I will give you magazine papers for free,” Ravi had told Bewda, “if you give me medium- spicy bhelpuri every day. One in the morning. One in the evening. And haan, I want extra potatoes on the side to clean my palate.”

Ravi had learned the word ‘palate’ in an English magazine that he collected from Mr and Mrs D’Souza’s house in Bangur Nagar. They also gave him empty bottles of wine sometimes. The cover of the magazine was missing but Ravi knew that it was a magazine about red and white wines. One thing that Mr. Gawde Sr left Ravi with (other than a pile of raddi) was a fluency to read in English, Hindi, Gujarati and Marathi. In English, Ravi had trouble with words like ‘sauvignon.’

“Ha. Wine is for pussies. Whiskey is a real man’s daaru,” Bewda had chuckled when Ravi mentioned his desire to taste wine.

‘Daaru’ was a word that Ravi had learned when he was a little boy, give and take around ten years ago. Daaru made a man weak. Daaru was bad. Daaru could kill you. Daaru killed Mrs. Gawde. A bad man who had drunk daaru killed her when she was returning with groceries from

Scribble&Scribe

36

the station at night. A respectable, self-made man would not drink daaru.Ravi had not known that wine or whiskey was daaru but he had read in the March 23, 2010 issue of the Navbharat Times that the Maharashtra state had increased the tax on daaru.

After Mr Gawde Sr died, Ravi started to come to Mrs D’Souza’s flat alone. The first few times, while Mrs D’Souza went inside and brought the raddi for the week, Ravi waited by the door and read about the Shiv Sena burning effigies, or about a maid murdering her employers after kidnapping their baby. He also read the Gruhshobha magazines he had collected from different women, and read the section where the women would write to ‘Dear Shobha’ to discuss their husband problems. Perhaps Mrs D’Souza had written to Dear Shobha too.

One day he rang the doorbell, and Mrs D’Souza opened the door with a smile. He noticed the cross around her neck, how the tip of the pendant rested in the slight cleavage that lurked beneath her neckline. He could not stop thinking about all the things Mrs D’Souza and he had shared. She had read the same wine magazines, touched the same newspapers, read the same stories in the Hindi Gruhshobha magazines. He knew all the things she had read, even the recipes for murgh masala or mutton keema.

She saw the curious look in the young man’s eyes when she gave him the used newspapers for that week, colourful magazines, and a Mills & Boon novel that she had read twice. Ravi’s eyes paused at the cover;a blond couple embracing, with the woman’s chin perched up, very close to the man’s lips.

“You should read this book,” Mrs D’Souza said, smiling without showing her teeth. Ravi read the title, “Forbidden plejher.”

“Pleasure. It is about lovers. You will find out. You like reading, no?”

“Yes madam,” he nodded his head.

“You will like it. Xavier has to go to work now, but let me know what you think.” Mrs D’Souza shut the door to her flat, and saw Ravi smile through the peep-hole.

Ravi went to Bewda for his daily dose of food, the Mills & Boon tucked in his back pocket. He remembered the article that Bewda had wrapped his lunch in. It was in Gujarati, written even before Mr Gawde had died. This newspaper was from more than a year ago, when the bomb blast happened at the Taj Hotel. ‘Kasab Trial Begins,’ was the title of the article. He remembered that he was sitting with this father at the corner chai shop when the TV showed the burning hotel, and the footage of the boy with a gun. The next week, he had read all the articles about the bomb from all the newspapers in English, Hindi and Gujarati. Mr Palekar had left the town without telling anyone, and ever since then the Marathi papers had stopped coming.

He took the red double-decker bus –teensochhappan–356 to OP Gardens, where he read Forbidden Pleasure. Before the mosquitoes come, he thought, he would read some of the book.

He knew what plejhure–excuse–pleasure meant but ‘forbidden’ was a word that he did not know exactly. He decided that he would look it up in the Oxford English pocket dictionary.

He read about Scott, a tall, handsome gardener who fell in love with Lina, an interior designer.

Scott did not speak much, and did not have many friends but he mowed the lawn in Lina’s garden. Scott was an intelligent man who studied business at night and mowed lawns during the day. Lina would raise the ‘blinds’– a word Ravi did not understand– and sneakily watch Scott’s bare and sweaty chest as he worked. Lina had a rich fiancé who travelled internationally for work and left Lina alone at home. Ravi read more about Scott’s love for Lina. Scott touched Lina’s fingertips when she gave him his weekly pay, and let his fingers linger on Lina’s hand. Scott

Scribble&Scribe

37

smiled at Lina when he caught her looking through the window. Scott took his shirt off even when it was not hot. Scott hid behind the bushes, and made Lina wait for him that Sunday morning because he knew she expected him at 8 A.M. sharp. He watched Lina sip her coffee in the silk robe that showed off her legs and neck.

Reading about Lina’s neck made Ravi conscious about his own neck which was now occupied by a mosquito. He clapped his hand down but the insect was too quick. There was a cloud of mosquitoes above his head but Ravi had been too engrossed in Lina’s bare legs and Scott’s bare chest. He wanted to see Mrs D’Souza again but knew that she had no new magazines or newspapers to give him. Plus it was too late in the evening. Mr D’Souza would be home. Ravi took the 356 back to Malad and went to sleep in the shack behind the raddi shop, the shack where his mother and father had brought him up. He lit some dhoop to shoo away the mosquitoes that seemed to have followed him from OP Gardens to the shack.

The next morning he sorted through the newspapers he had collected based on the quality of the paper. The Economic Times was brown and not everyone wanted it, so he would sell it to the dhobis, the dry-cleaning men, who wrapped the clean clothes in brown newspaper. He put all the Times of India copies together and the Navbharat Times went in a pile of its own. In one of the jute bags, he found a copy of a new newspaper, one he had not seen before. It was called the Wall Street Journal. It looked like it was a foreign newspaper–American–because the price was marked in dollars, not rupees. Ravi did not know that US, Canada, Singapore and Australia all had dollars. He knew that Ecuador and Zimbabwe used dollars because of ‘inflation,’ but he thought Ecuador and Zimbabwe were provinces of America like Gujarat and Maharashtra are provinces of India.

While sorting the newspapers, he paused, squatted and read through the Wall Street Journal.

There were many words that did not make sense to him, like NASDAQ or Minneapolis. He read about India in the newspaper, about Pratibha Patil’s visit to the United States. He never understood how United States differed from America, the foreign land. He looked through the pictures of blond men and remembered Scott.

He must see Mrs D’Souza. Mr D’Souza must be off to work now. But what would he say to her?

He wanted to take his shirt off and hide behind the bushes for Mrs D’Souza to look for him. He would go just to catch a glimpse. Nothing else. He changed into the pants he had worn the day before, put on a white sleeveless ganji and tucked Forbidden Pleasure in his pants. He went to Bewda and took away his daily meal, and before eating he went to Mrs D’Souza’s building and waited downstairs. He did not want to go to her flat. Not just yet. He waited for her to appear in her window but she didn’t. He waited for 20 minutes, then 30, but she was not there. He couldn’t wait any longer. He went up to her flat and rang the doorbell. Ravi immediately realized what a terrible idea it had been to ring the bell without thinking but before he could turn around and leave, Mrs D’Souza opened the door.

“Ravi. You were here just yesterday,” Mrs D’Souza spoke in astonishment but with a definite smile on her face.

The cross was still around her neck. She wore a dress that reached just above her ankles, and Ravi could see the slight bulges of her tummy that the dress did not attempt to hide. She had no lipstick on, and her hair was wet, tied back but still curly. She smelled of fragrant soap, a smell that did not belong to the poor raddiwalas or bhelpuriwalas or carpenterwalas. It belonged only to women like Mrs D’Souza or Lina.

Scribble&Scribe

38

“Yes, madam.”

“Did you read the book?” “Yes, madam. Some.” “Come in if you want.”

Ravi took his slippers off, and entered the flat for the first time. Even when he visited with his father, even when Mr D’Souza did not have a Mrs, he had never entered the flat. He had entered a rich person’s home for the first time; it was like the movies but not with chandeliers or a staircase. There was a balcony in the flat that faced the side where Ravi had waited for Mrs D’Souza to appear. The sofas were covered with a white crocheted cover, and there was bloodred carpet that covered half of the living room. The TV was on the sports channel but silent, and on top of the TV was a framed black-and-white photo of an old couple who must have been Mr D’Souza’s parents. The man was in a suit, a hat and a cane in his hand standing next to a woman in a long floral dress with glasses on. He looked serious while she smiled in the camera. She did not resemble Mrs D’Souza.

“Who is it, Hazel?” Mr D’Souza’s voice called from inside the bedroom.

“The raddiwala, darling. Don’t worry.” Mrs D’Souza shouted back.

Ravi felt nervous knowing that Mr D’Souza was still in the house. He turned to leave but Mrs D’Souza stopped him.

“Why’re you going? Won’t you tell me what you thought of the book?” Mrs D’Souza stretched her hand out but did not touch Ravi.

If Mr D’Souza was a villain like Lina’s fiancé, wasn’t he supposed to travel internationally? Mr D’Souza came out of the bedroom in a light blue shirt, a dark brown tie and trousers. His hair was neatly combed, and he smelled just like Mrs D’Souza’s soap but Ravi could also smell the strong smell of Parachute hair oil.

“Do one thing. Come tomorrow. I am late for work today,” Mr D’Souza gestured for Ravi to leave as he grabbed the newspaper from the table, and skimmed the front page. “Hazel, is the coffee ready?”

Mrs D’Souza looked at Ravi but stayed silent.

Ravi went back outside the flat, and put on his slippers. He took the Mills & Boon out of his pocket and handed it out to Mrs D’Souza.

“No. You keep it and read it. Come back tomorrow. Same time. He will not be here.” Mrs D’Souza tapped the book, and touched his fingertips gently.

“Tanks, madam.”

“Thanks, Ravi. Th-thanks.”

Ravi nodded and left the flat. He went down the stairs, and looked up at Mrs D’Souza’s window.

She looked down at him and waved, without a smile.

He blocked the sun with one hand, and waved with the other before he turned and ran away.

Scribble&Scribe

39

As he sat at the corner chai shop, he thought about Mrs D’Souza. He opened up the soggy medium-spicy, bhelpuri that he had picked up from Bewda on his way to Mrs D’Souza’s. He was always curious to see if he remembered which article or newspaper was underneath the chutney-puffed rice-tomato-onion melange. It was an English magazine with a half-solved crossword puzzle. He remembered reading this magazine a few weeks ago, the October edition about Gandhi’s birthday. One woman in the magazine asked Dear Shobha how she could revive the passion in her marriage with her husband who travelled frequently. Dear Shobha had replied that the woman should dress up for her husband when he was at home, and that would make him attracted to her again. Passion in bed will definitely revive the passion in the marriage, Dear Shobha had said.

As the raddiwala read Forbidden Pleasure, he read about Scott entering Lina’s home when her fiancé was in Spain. Scott told Lina about his evening business classes. Lina and Scott had some red wine. Lina told Scott about her engagement, about her unhappiness. Scott talked about his dead mother, and his desire to start a business of his own. A business that he did not inherit from his father.

He would make Mrs D’Souza wait, and watch her look out the balcony for him.

He wanted to have daaru one day. Wine with Mrs D’Souza or whiskey with Bewda. He would like to try it. He wanted to read more Mills & Boon books about Scott and Lina. He wanted to know all the words in the dictionary, and read the Wall Street Journal every day. He would buy a house with a carpet and a chandelier but most importantly, he wanted to read everything that Mrs D’Souza read and ever wanted to read.

Scribble&Scribe

40

Growing In Their Land Mitch Metcalfe

A bleak blurred greeting — her words tromboned as a one man orchestra. Only noise occupied my thoughtless auditorium, and words of my own accord were interrupted before I began.

"Hello, ma’am", she greeted assumingly not looking up from the register. I approached the Diners’ front-counter.

Week long facial-hair remained unkempt, bristling underneath the damaged fan-forced air-con.

From the vent droplets of water leaked, heightening uncomfortable expressions. A hesitant reminder that it was held in the same confined eating area food was coming from. I nervously paused at the idea of the Kitchens state too, as the sweat on my forehead formed like earlymorning windscreen condensation. A sheet of pale white dawned over my gaunt face in an uncertain fashion. This was not a proud, or stable moment to embrace.

My crown frizzled thin like straw from the near dry desert air. A second washed glance would have adjusted the cashiers faux-pas. Small windows of tinted shades revoked my identity, and unseen the rest was assumed. Boy, Girl? They couldn’t tell. It wasn’t until a rustic scratch of vocal expression, that I managed to order one small Coke. The brief hope it could make all the difference. Lighting clarity in a temp perk.

Hung-over, past two nights spent awake creeping in Vegas lurking around casino floors, and roaming hotel rooms that looked like Baking-Soda crime scenes. Hunched and desperate, I stood near the bar awaiting my order, needing a kick to truck-on. For the next city it would be needed, in all hope I would make it’s venture less depraved than the last.

From whatever drink dispensing tap I could find, the Styrofoam cup with Caramel syrup disguised liquid was caroused into my system. Slowing my vitals to an anxious pulse; familiar to the slight hum a mosquito might make, flying past your ear started to ring from inside my head.

A clear sign; fainting was iminent. If an intravenous solution was available, that method of ingestion would have been taken. For it felt like seconds were running on empty until my skull would knock flat against the unclean tiled floors. Holding it together, the illicit details of our pestilent affairs didn’t surface to those around us.

Two months of follicle growth accrued during the summer-inter crossover. The cold-snap rasp strung me loose over long nights invariably exploring some strange town. We often took breathers to check our heads, and remember what city we were in and where we’d just passed through. Tragic Radio Ballads rolled on the road for days in whatever cross country van was out front, close to airport transfers for hire. *** Some weeks later; another Country acquainted with unique customs and expectations. Had it not been for the former experience, that Diner would have come much to a surprise at the value in which it was presented: callus, and nonchalant. Perhaps my appearance was too vague through a persuasive fault of my own. In all, I was never too one sided about having lived and learned.

The working locals of Prague were no different. Delivering awkward and suspicious stares.

Inspecting how much they could figure out for themselves, during that small second as I brushed past a hurried crowd. Just like the cashier; all assuming again. Confused as to how far of the

Scribble&Scribe

41

dividing bend went; what part of the body’s mix they couldn’t see. As I was all jacket in the middle, rounded from a beanie to hiking boots. There was no telling what humanly features lay within.

Being prudent wasn’t part of the cultural language; the subject of which didn’t cover ways of the old-world. Things were simple. The country itself had herald radical changes, and rapidness in attitude reflected that, from all the influenced ways in the americanized world. Their kids of age, were only now catching up. I was dubious to the amount of credit they put into progressive understanding.

Halted in the bathroom line while dozens waited to pay for a small cubicle, I rummaged through the many pockets of my pants and paid the 25 crown fee to a lady tightly occupied in a glass booth. Proceeding to walk down the dark and gritty corridor reminiscent of a horror movie. A chill crept through me, before progression could be made - my jacket sleeve was tugged and pulled aside.

“Ma’am. Please!” the only broken English she and I could mutually understand.

The attendant’s finger pointed, and directed towards the sign-posted female doors; my gaze lolled over in detest. I shrugged her off and walked into the men’s.

Sunset peaked at half past three in the afternoon, unlike the Southern Hemisphere accustomed to near six in the evening.A sense of adventure was real; mirrored inspiration flowed off the waters shine through the boating dredge. Sparing thought to mercy and acceptance in a wider world that one was privileged to travel through. Surreal in presence; time seemed to melt, as seconds waved on by the town’s infamous Pražský Orloj. This time ignorance was not faulted, and everything motioned into effect, pertaining bliss to a higher accord.

Waiting along Charles Bridge, the Sun broke under River Vltavas’ horizon, as we awaited our lucrative move to a vicinity deep underground, supposedly relevant to the last World War. The group amassed into a tactile pack, led by a guide who didn’t look like a guide, escorting us throughout the now pitch-black Gothic street quarters. She heavily detailed on its history through a Headset and linked Megaphone. It wasn’t until the rest caught up and arrived outside a rusted door where we were met by two men. Draped in Czech Military uniforms, one adorned the same kindred tendril curls in his hair as I. Past the beaten chamber door, the air was stagnant and old. After the lights adjusted, it came to be we were in the bowels of a nuclear fallout bunker. Sheltered three stories underground lined in untouched Hessian and meshed fencing. It was divided into three parts: one used by the military, another a nightclub, the last a small museum illustrating the poor - and terrifying presumptuous conditions which citizens experienced in the days of yore.

Unspoken trinkets of terror holding stories of failing Governments gazed from the other side of the glass panels. Gas-mask optics gaped the reality of war, edging closer than ever before. These were instruments of death and prevention, home to the Men, Women and Children who feared the expectant attack of almost daily atomic reckoning. I was almost convinced that they still served as tools of demonstration, but also in the unlikely event of function as well.

An unspoken understanding of pure fashion made the connection a home away from home. The long haired comrade piped-up, and harkened small words after grouped photos ornamented with deactivated firearms and Soviet coats. It seemed he had figured out a trend from my country’s origins. Lost in translation; but somehow making sense to him, regardless of what I thought. A smile came across his dial as he suddenly barked, “Together we look like Classic Rock cover, yeah?”

Startled, but knowing exactly what he meant, I simply returned the smile.

Scribble&Scribe

42

Tomorrow’s Winter Hugh Rayner

‘Excuse me? You do know that your life consists entirely of being a dog, right? And that will never change?’

Ralph looked at me with his tongue rolling from the side of his mouth.

‘You know, if I never opened this door again you’d never go outside? Ralph?’

His tail wagged, beating against the floor in a steady rhythm.

‘You don’t have opposable thumbs, see. That’s why I can open this door. I am the king of walkies!’

The beat frenzied, exciting dust from the carpet into the air.

‘I am the superior animal, you know.’

Ralph let out a whimper of excitement.

‘Okay. Let’s go, you mongrel.’ I opened the door.

Ralph boomed from the house like a bolt of gold lightning and zig-zagged to the front gate.

We stepped down from my yard onto a little wooden skiff, Ralph immediately assuming a figurehead position at the prow. I picked up a rod and pushed the vessel from the bank. We skidded, the boat smoothly dragging on the water. The wind rifled through my hair, whistling through the shell of the old Bodleian building sat square in the water ahead.

‘Heya, Philip,’ I said.

‘Nice day, isn’t it?’

‘Sure is.’

We drifted past each other. I steered to the left, careful not to get close to the building.

Despite that, something shuddered along the bottom of my boat. I hauled away from it.

A sharp ripple in the water ahead caught my eye. ‘Stuck, neighbour?’

Lucy looked up. ‘Hi Ted. Won’t take a second.’ She ripped her pole free from the water with a squelch, rocking her boat wildly.

She patted her hair down. ‘Getting colder, isn’t it?’

I looked up into the sky. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to see, but it’s what people do when you talk about the weather. ‘I guess.’

‘Are you going to the election today? Cassius said that he would start building some schools around here.’

‘Maybe.’ I cast a look back in the direction of my house and rubbed my arms. ‘It is a bit cold.’

‘You should vote for him. He wants to plan for the future.’

‘I’ll take the future as it comes.’

‘Well, if you don’t vote Silas will be back in charge.’

Ralph brushed against my leg and I patted him absently. ‘What’ll happen will happen. Silas said he’d deliver a log or two of firewood soon.’

Lucy set her jaw forward. ‘Fine. Don’t vote and see what happens. You’ll be cold when the wood runs out, and you’ll be uneducated.’

Lucy heaved her tin boat away, toward the meeting ground.

‘Just you and me again, Ralph. How about we go home and get some warm clothes on? You like that?’

Ralph rolled over and presented his belly. I scratched the spot that makes his leg kick like a piston gone haywire.

‘This is just like they said about that horrible business years ago, but look at us now! We’re all right, aren’t we Ralphie?’

Scribble&Scribe

43

He jutted his head back to let me rub underneath his chin.

‘Sure, would’ve been bad back then, no doubt. But it all worked itself out.’

Ralph flipped to his paws and leaned over the side.

‘What are you doing, buddy?’

He teetered and looked back at me.

‘Fine. So long as you know you aren’t getting back into this boat wet.’

Ralph piled into the water. I reclined against one of the wooden planks that I’d bolted to the seat-slat to make a backrest. The boat drifted, Ralph paddling around it in the throes of one of his fits of ecstasy.

‘Look at you. No worries if you don’t think about ‘em. We could all learn a lot from you, Ralphie.’

Ralph forcefully splashed his way over to the side of the skiff and looked at me with those big brown eyes.

‘I told you, didn’t I? No getting back in wet.’

Ralph looked appropriately abashed. His splashes died down too.

I realised what was about to happen a second too late.

‘No, Ralph! Stop!’ I shouted as he collected his energy and attempted to thrust himself aboard. He hooked his paws over the lip of the port side and looked at me uselessly. I sighed.

‘Up you come.’ I grabbed his shaggy body and heaved. He lay still, letting me do all the work and yelped encouragingly. Eventually, a sopping mess of dog and mud had boarded my vessel and resumed his position at the front. I fell back, breathing the chill air deeply.

‘You are going to be cold.’

Ralph barked.

‘What is it boy? You want to go back in the water? Please, be my guest.’

He pawed at the water.

‘A fish, is it? We’ve seen plenty of those.’

He kept prodding at the water, so I carefully clambered over to have a look. Some object was floating past. I reached down, letting my fingers curl through the water until we got close enough.

‘Looks like an old suitcase. Good find. Good boy.’

I felt Ralph vibrate from the approval as I lifted the case onboard. ‘Ugh, disgusting. I’m gonna have to clean the boat.’

I wiped muck from my face and pulled on a latch stiff with age.

‘Come on,’ I muttered.

It cracked open suddenly, and one of the metal hinges snapped free.

‘Guess I won’t be using this, then.’

I looked inside. It was dry, fortunately. One of these suitcases must’ve gone for hundreds back in the day. Papers were carefully folded inside.

‘What’s this? Some sort of pamphlet?’

I struggled to read it to Ralph. It had words I hadn’t seen in my thirty years of life on this blue world, but I got the gist of it.

‘Ice caps mel… melting. Stop globil? Global? War...warming...?’

Ralph padded in a tight circle, snapping at his tail.

‘Simple animal, aren’t you? Yes you are, just a simple little boy,’ I rubbed his chin just where he liked it. The air filled with the warm scent of dog mingled with cold salt. ‘Look at us! Didn’t hurt a bit, did it?’

Scribble&Scribe

44

WWWWINNER August Issue 1

La Vida es un Carnaval.

Helena Pena Del Valle Cecilio Amadio watched as hundreds of people poured into his wake. Carnival was the best time of year to die, and the old and weary waited all year to drop dead like flies during the week of festivities. Cecilio observed the mourners. His eyes came to rest on his wife Teresita who was sitting next to a statue of the Virgin Mary, silent and airy. She was shaking uncontrollably, refusing to shed a single tear for her dead spouse. Tears brought bad luck to the souls of the dead, and Teresita would not risk dancing with Satan on her husband’s grave. Cecilio sighed, and finished his whisky.

Below, the wake was in full swing. His three brothers had been drunk for days, and were pouring rum into the eager hands of arriving guests. They cheered and cried for their dead brother, raising their glasses over the heads of the crowd, leading them in pagan chants of adoration. It was a lively scene, coloured by the toxic glow of the flowers next to his open coffin, a platform of worship to the mourners who passed his stupefied body in wails or smiles to offer their brief goodbyes.

Scattered around the room were several children in brightly coloured costumes with painted faces dazzled in glitter and gold. They played, untamed and unchecked by their mothers, who gathered around a cauldron of chatter, to scourge and curse everyone and everything that caught their eye. Ignoring the havoc their offspring were infusing, the witches allowed the little creatures to circle and dance around the cadaver, offering their innocence to the altar of death.

Cecilio smiled; a smug and satisfied sort of smile. Let the living mock death for a while, for he was content to watch them ridicule each other in the same room.

Sometime in the afternoon Jose Angel Amadio walked into the wake wearing a dark suit and tie, causing quite a stir among the crowd. He was a tall, handsome young man with green eyes the colour of envy; eyes that had tormented the deceased since the day of the boy’s birth.

Cecilio stirred from the heavens, for he despised his grandson for reasons he did not comprehend, even in death. He had always felt uncomfortable under the boy’s green gaze, for it had always instilled in him a sense of weakness and despair. Jose Angel moved past his relatives in silence, reaching the open coffin and glowering over the corpse of his grandfather. He felt nothing, for he had chosen at a young age not to give this man any relevance to his life.

Jose Angel had an uncanny understanding of his people. He could see the souls of the living with a glance, and hold them at his mercy through his poisonous eyes. He stood watching the body with disdain, all the while heightening Cecilio’s discomfort. His venomous stare finally released him, and he began walking towards the exit when he stopped in his tracks and smiled.

He stared at girl in a short white dress of beautiful complexion, who was looking at the crowd in covert fascination. Her straight gait and cunning gaze left Cecilio with the impression that, like his grandson, she knew something he did not. His unease multiplied when he noticed that her eyes were a splendid olive green.

Jose Angel greeted the girl with familiarity.

“Hello Dede.” He said teasingly.

“Jose Angel.” She replied with an air of nonchalance.

He sat down next to her.

Scribble&Scribe 45

“Did your mother drag you to this parade of sorrow or did you come a willing victim?”

“I came to comfort the living.”

Jose Angel grinned, for the living needed no comfort. The afternoon heat had turned the wake into an exhilarating celebration of everything but death. The crowd looked at anything but the corpse, ignoring Cecilio’s wasted presence and revelling in their vivacity to breathe. Laughter was the chorus of the masses, and the grief that sparked the occasion had turned into an orgy of elation.

“He’s probably delighting in this inferno,” Said Jose Angel staring at the congregation.

She looked up at him with a knowing gaze.

“You are confusing chaos with hell, the two are very different. Look at them,” she nodded at the crowd “This is not hell. The inferno you talk of is a place of punishment and pain, and the people before us are in a state of ecstasy if anything else. What you see is simply a people with a perpetual addiction to chaos, moved only by the madness of disorder. They could never survive without this pandemonium. They relish it. More than that, they search for it like dogs search for bones, with no rhyme or reason other than it’s in their nature.”

“So can God forgive us this immorality simply because as you say, it’s in our nature?”

“God can appreciate our fear for death as a means to keep on living. Chaos is our drug and our curse,” She said “but it has allowed us to master the art of living for the day – “ BANG! – Dede was interrupted by a loud noise that paralysed the room. The coffin toppled to the floor and Cecilio’s body lay sprawled on one of the children who had been pushed against the casket, in the midst of a ceremonial dance. Teresita broke the silence with an agonizing cry. The bumbling brothers began to sob violently, grasping each other in an awkward embrace barely able to hold each other up from the floor. The motherly hags pulled their children by the ears, tears pouring from their glittering eyes at the thought of the cruel punishment that awaited them. The mob cried a miserable shriek of terror. Their joy transformed into grief and panic, as they watched their tears call Lucifer into the room.

Jose Angel and Dede sat in stunned fascination. When the compounded cries of the city had opened the gates of hell, the two of them walked out hand in hand.

They passed a sleeping man at the door, holding an old radio where Celia Cruz’s voice could be heard mumbling her last song.

Ay, no hay que llorar Que la vida es un carnaval.

Up above, all that remained of Cecilio was a broken glass of whisky.

Issue 1 – Winner; Short Story Competition La Vida es un Carnaval by Helena Pena Del Valle

uqwritersclub@gmail.com

We have been astonished by the number of writers in the University willing to put their work to the test. We hope we continue to get the same out put every month. Anyone in the Univeristy should feel free to submit their work. Our judging team has been advised to look at the merit of your work rather than the professionalism. Our email is just in the right hand corner, don’t be shy.

Scribble&Scribe

46

SAMUELSAPIEN August Issue 1

Samuel’s Sapiens Written by Kathy Mei

Photography by Samuel Regi

Samuel's Sapiens by Kathy Mei is not a space which credits the fashion sense of the high flying fashionistas (There are too many people already doing that). Instead, the personification that makes our space unique is the mundane sense of style of the normal people you encounter every day.

There's something unique about every person and through these photos and the story accompanying the photos, we’re trying to shed some light on that uniqueness lost in the midst of all the mundanity. The description is entirely based on the moment personified through the image; the stance, the pose, the attire, the attitude; even the background plays an important role in the storytelling process. The whole story can be entirely false; maybe a confident lady might be a very shy creature, but by illustrating a bold flash of her life we're highlighting a moment in which she's an upbeat person, and that's what it's all about.

For the first issue, we're tackling a winter theme revolving around an Indie approach.

Scribble&Scribe 47

Shy, sweet but confident.

All rugged up for winter, this girl doesn’t miss a beat in covering her body from head to toe. She accessorises heavily with a statement scarf and hat, but keeps the bottom half to a minimum of simple plain three quarter denim and the ever famous Chuck Taylors. Immediately, your eyes are drawn to the top half of her body. It is what is most salient and what she wants you to pay attention to. Here’s a tip for anyone wishing to show off a certain part of their attire, contrast the main piece with more standard looking clothes that have more neutral tones. This girl does it spectacularly with the scarf.

The hat adds a nice touch and the shoes give the feel that she is a simple girl. Gorgeous.

Let’s take a stab at this… trap, techno, or house?

Without making himself look as if he went into Culture Kings, bought everything that “looked cool” and put it all on in one outfit, this young man does a fine job in giving a ‘swag’ appearance, effortlessly. As complex as the music he is likely listening to, his outfit might also leave one scratching their head trying to figure out his style.

His style is casual but stylish and trendy, and there is a bit of a partying vibe. Correct me if I'm wrong, I don’t mean to stereotype, but this man’s outfit could be easily pictured on the website Culture Kings - Bracelets, check. Paisley shirt, check. Jeans, check. Nikes, check.The washed out jeans go well with the pattern of the shirt, and the block coloured jacket finishes the outfit off with a nice edgy touch. It’s the right balance of both texture, pattern and a

Scribble&Scribe

48

solid match. I call respect, to anyone who pulls off “swag”.

Nothing like a cup of coffee to warm one up during winter.

Street fashion in Brisbane during winter is absolutely crazy. You really never know what you’re going to get. Some dress immaculately with coats, others are in shorts and crop tops. This girl seems to be wearing dark colours for the most part of her outfit, which are “the” colours for winter. High socks to go with the Docs definitely give them a nicer, more girly feel. The whole outfit is playful and could be mistaken for something that’d be worn in warmer months, however the socks and the fur vest give you the feeling that, “winter is coming”.

Do you read? Are you a writer? Or are you secretly a knight (in fashionable armor)?

The age old rule is “less is more”””, and this young man does an amazing job in putting the most simple and plain clothing together to create this majestic guise. Statement white tee that never goes out of style, and plain shorts.

But what really makes this entire outfit the smart and sophisticated look that it is, are the large framed glasses, the double-shouldered backpack and even the jumper wrapped around the waist. It is definitely not easy to pull it off well, but this gentleman does a fab job. Well done!

Scribble&Scribe

49

DATINGADVICE August Issue 1

Lonely Hearts with Lady Catherine and The Night-hawk *Real name withheld so as not to compromise current or future missions. Especially not the Geneva incident.

Dear Lonely Hearts, My boyfriend and I have been together for six months and I really like him. We have a great time together, but lately we’ve been having some issues. We got in a big fight yesterday and he said he can’t handle my emotions; should I try to make him understand where I’m coming from? Or is this a sign that the relationship has run its course? Please Help!

- Desperate “Desperate” –

Dear. Desperate Dump his unsympathetic arse, sweetie!

Emotions are what make a relationship—isn’t that the reason you started dating in the first place? Everything from joy to rage, if he can’t handle it then find someone who can! Get out there and find a real Prince Charming: someone who listens to your every word, who knows exactly what you’re feeling and thinking before you even have to tell them. Find someone who brings you flowers and chocolates and writes songs for you every day.

You deserve someone who hangs from your every word and worships the ground you walk on. Find someone who will spontaneously compose original poetry inspired by your lustrous beauty. He should sing “Ave Maria” every morning when you awake, and weep when he contemplates the glory of your perfection. You need someone who’s never weak but always strong, someone to protect you and defend you whether you are right or wrong. You need someone who will open each and every door, someone who will die for you and more. You need someone who will come each time you call. Prince Charming is out there! You just need to keep searching for your perfect soul-mate and never, under any circumstances, lower your expectations. You need to find someone like my partner; he’s perfect! But not my partner. You want the same make, different model, sweetie. Good luck! – Lady C.

Emotions are for the weak. Remember the advice from the gritty tale of one girl’s struggle to build a kingdom in a frozen wasteland: “conceal, don’t feel”. Emotions stop you from achieving your prime objective – to conquer all. This man is beneath you, and love will only be a burden on your rise to the top. Each loved one is a possible weapon your enemies can use against you, and not giving your enemies extra weapons is rule number one.

Remember that. My advice – dump him, find a shooting range, and turn those “emotions” into laser-point accuracy. – NH

Scribble&Scribe 50

Dear Lonely Hearts, Kate and I have been friends since high school. Two months ago, I accidentally packed her designer jumper into my bag after a sleepover. She made a huge deal about the fact that it was missing, and even had the family maid fired because she was convinced that she stole it. I only just realised that I’ve had it in the bottom of my overnight bag all this time, and I’m terrified of owning up. What should I do?

– Unintentional Thief Dear, Unintentional Thief

Unintentional Thief –

MY GOD! How could you do that? You call yourself a friend? The first thing we learn in finishing school is don’t touch another woman’s designer property! Even my boyfriend (soon to be fiancé) knows that!

Heavens above, designer clothing is sacred!

Seeing as you’ve already committed the atrocity though, I’m obligated under feminine law to ask: is it safe now? And was it Chanel?

Have you checked the seams? Are there any loose threads? Did you squash it? Is it crumpled? Has it lost any of the original sheen?

How quickly did you get it to the dry-cleaners (I can only assume you went straight there)? Is the label still visible?! Really, the only thing you can do now is give her your credit card and beg forgiveness, though you wouldn’t get any from me. – Lady C

Burn it. Burn it all. Fire shall cleanse your soul and assuage your guilt. Fire is your only friend now.

- NH

Dear Lonely Hearts, There’s this girl in my engineering class who I really want to ask out, but I’m not sure how.

Any suggestions?

- Lonely Engineer Dear, Lonely Engineer You’re an engineer, right? Engineer the perfect scenario! Picture this: you walk into the lecture with roses in one hand, chocolates in the other. A Ronan Keating power ballad plays overhead, and you substitute her name into the lyrics as you serenade her in front of the class. You give the signal, and the white doves are released. You shove the lecturer aside to take the podium (don’t worry, they’ll be thankful for the break) and your pre-prepped team of florists stream into the room to throw flower petals at her feet. If you can, cry on cue as the screen displays fireworks and love-heart

bubbles, alternating with both of your baby pictures (you will, of course, have already downloaded these from Facebook). Finally, as the power ballad comes to an end, pull out a little box from your pocket, get down on one knee, and open it to reveal a tiny candy heart that says “be mine”. – Lady C

Scribble&Scribe

51

essentials: food, shelter, protein powder, access to a gym, and an exit strategy.

Engineering is an acceptable degree (at least you aren’t one of those man-child “arts” students. You can be saved). Focus on engineering your life and yourself into streamlined perfection. - NH

“Lonely” Engineer Simple, you don’t. Relationships are distractions, and you don’t need distractions. What you need are the

Dear Lonely Hearts, I thought we were deeply in love, but I recently caught my partner cheating on me. They don’t know that I know. I’m really hurt, but we have been together for six years and I’m not sure if I should let it go or try to make it work. Please help!

Undecided.

Dear, Undecided First of all, my condolences, dear. We all know how much damage a cheater can cause, and I’m even more horrified that a woman has left such a dashing young man as yourself out in the dating wilderness! But I think you and I both know the answer lies in the question: do you love her enough to move past it? Six years is a long time, and you know what the Beatles say, “all you need is love! Do, do, do, do, doo”.

Of course, if you don’t think you can get past it, then take stock of your life. Tell yourself, every morning if you have to, that you are a handsome, beautiful, and glorious being. You don’t need that in your life, especially not a cheater. As my (perfect) boyfriend repeatedly tells me: the perfect woman is worth waiting for, and Princess Charming can exist too! But, if you think you can get over it, then maybe you’ll be looking at a lifetime of sunshine and rainbows. Who knows? Personally, my partner’s been a romantic since day one, and I know he’d never do anything so horrendous, but we can’t expect them all to be the perfect human specimen, now can we? But perhaps you can work through it, dear. The question is, do you think it’s worth it? – Lady C

Undecided – Your man has cheated on you, and left you for another woman. These are the facts.

Whether you should stay and try to make this relationship work, or cut and run is not the question you need to be asking. The only question you should be asking is “Can I take her?” The answer to this question is easy to calculate. Do you know her weight to muscle mass ratio? Is yours higher? Have you been bulking lately? Do you have access to protein powder and a gym? Relationships are unnecessary, but weakness is unacceptable. Neither of them are worthy of you. Destroy them both, burn the ground, salt the earth, and move on. - NH

Scribble&Scribe

52

RAGESPACE August Issue 1

Etticut with Sampson the Goat Edition 1: An open letter to Loud Lenny, the boy who answered all the lecturer’s questions like he was being interviewed by Oprah

Dear Lenny, Next time you heave in that breath that you take before each, and every time you answer the lecturer’s question by talking about that B-grade genre fiction book you read, where something very generic happened that had nothing to do with the original question, could you please consider the rest of the class who simply do not care?

Lenny, we have nothing against you. In person you seem quite nice. If I could look past your strangely shaped legs, we probably could be friends. Probably not, actually, I don’t make many friends. But, Lenny! Just because lectures are now more user friendly and we - the students - can give feedback, it doesn’t give you the right to go horribly off topic. Better yet, does it give you the right to hog more time than the lecturer.

I am pissed, lanky loud Lenny. This is geometry and I’m serious. I am here - I am PAYING to be here - not because I want to hear about some book you read, but because I’m trying to be a geometer. A fully fledged, read, bled geometer. And you’re getting in the way of that, Lenny. I bet you don’t even know what geometry is, you’re probably in the wrong lecture.

I’ve got a question. A question that’ll prove whether you’re a geometer or not. You with me, Lenny? What is a pentagon? Is it “oh I was reading a book last night about two dwarves who had some stupid wedding ring that they had to destroy, because Tony Abbott told them”. No it’s not, Lenny. Rings are circles. Pentagons are different.

You know what? I’m going to reveal myself. Lenny, to you. I am in your tute. Yeah, that’s right, you know who I am. I’m the only goat in your tute. And in the tute you are completely quiet. What gives? Is it cause you feel me staring you down with my cold, dead, goat eyes? Are you afraid of goats? You think us goats are all the same? You think just cause I’m a goat and I’m death staring you that I’m going to kill you - in some horrifying manner? Well you’re right. Imma find you in an alley and I’m gonna eat you. Imma eat you like a handbag, like it’s a petting zoo and you’re some kids’ fingers. Mmm I bet your skinny little Apple Mac fingers are delicious. Bah muthafucka!

Yours sincerely,

Sampson

Scribble&Scribe 53

COMICS August Issue 1

Scribble&Scribe 54

Scribble&Scribe

55

This magazine is brought to you by

&

Located bellow the food court, next to the Red Room

Scribble&Scribe